I was a rope-tow-operator at the tender age of 15. A “ropey,” getting paid to watch my friends lap the halfpipe all night. It felt surreal.
A couple years later, I moved up to lifty-status and obtained a discounted ski-locker plus a free ski pass. I’d entered a club where the soul of skiing resides, a place where the obsession I have lived with since my early days of lapping bump runs and charging gates first formed. I missed going to see the Rolling Stones with my older brother because it landed on the opening day of skiing at Mt. Brighton. Yes, the same Mt. Brighton from Aspen Extreme (the best ski film of the early 90’s) and the same 230 vertical feet that kept me satisfied throughout my formative years. It wasn’t until I became a bit older and grew tired of the same bump run–around the time said movie came out–we decided to illegally hop the fence one dark night to attempt skiing the “backside.” The rush of my first illegal OB mission and the late nights skiing under fluorescent lights had me captivated.