Words: ALEX HUNT 2024-02-08 07:11:32
Danger at the door. Serious snowfall came knocking in the lower level of Utah’s Alta Lodge last season. Photo: Chris Whitaker Clad in Gore-Tex with skis in hand, I pressed all my weight against the door. Pushing aside a hefty snowdrift deposited overnight, I re-read the sign taped to the glass: “By order of the Town Marshall, interlodge will remain in effect until further notice. Estimated opening time: 8:00 a.m.” It was now a few minutes after eight, and we’d been granted permission to step outside. The storm had temporarily lifted, revealing an otherworldly snowscape of oversized flutes, spines and pillows. A maniacal grin spread across my face, confirming that we were well ahead of the crowd on a perfect powder day. My long sought-after intentions were becoming reality. We were about to take a trip back in time. With its easily accessible, bottomless powder, Utah’s Little Cottonwood Canyon is no secret. On average, most locations see about 500 inches of snow each winter, but record-breaking winters push those totals to more than 700 inches. Last year, Ullr was hellbent on giving those numbers a run for their money. It was still December, but the snowbanks were already head height. A few cars, carefully tucked away by their owners for the winter, wouldn’t see daylight until May. Unaware at the time, we were living history with a record-breaking 900-plus-inch season well underway. Of course, any old-timer would be happy to remind you what it was like “back in the day”—no traffic, no lift lines and hardly a track to be crossed. I was on a mission to somehow, someway recreate one of those scenarios with my own crew of well-trained powder hounds. All I needed was a solid understanding of storm dynamics, the flexibility to shirk all responsibilities at a moment’s notice, enough cash to pony up for a slopeside room at one of North America’s most storied locales, and a refined taste for sacrilege. Easy enough, right? Gluttony is a strong word, especially in a state well known for its church-going populace. Fortunately for us, sins would not exist in the real-life parable we had created. Interlodges are not an exact science, but with a strong enough long-term forecast, it’s possible to stack the deck. In the end however, it’s still up to fate, and on this occasion, someone—or something—smiled upon us. Everything in which we indulged during that three-day period—après, hot tub sessions, baseball steaks, late night humor and ridiculously premium powder skiing—was excessive in nature. We lived the life of sinners with zero remorse. On my first lap that fateful day, I stopped above a familiar glade. Knowing the snow would be a bit deeper against the row of mature trees to my left, I pushed off, my tips pointed directly down the fall line. Gaining speed was a challenge as my shins and knees created a snowy wake, but then gravity took hold. With a slight unweighting of my left foot, I was engulfed in a wave of white and lost vision. I was floating on crystals, reveling in the weightlessness that accompanied the momentary loss of my senses. When I emerged from the frozen blanket, I felt like I had passed through a transcendent portal, returning to a simpler time. I was living “back in the day,” right now.
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INTERLODGED IN TIME
https://digital.theskijournal.com/articles/interlodged-in-time