Ski Scenic Cheyenne?

A different experience of Frontier Park. Photo by Susan Mark.

After the weekend's epic storm, I found myself the proud owner of a ski-in, ski-out property. In resort communities, people pay top dollar to walk out their front door and clip into skis. We achieved this for the cost of a modest two-bedroom house in a mid-sized town.

The official tally in Cheyenne was 30.8" of snow in a two-day blizzard. WYDOT had to stop plowing during the storm when snowplows were going off the roads in whiteout conditions and getting stuck.  On some of the webcams, once the whiteouts cleared, you couldn't tell highway from land under all the snow. Volunteers ferried doctors and nurses to the hospital on snowmobiles.

My husband spent Saturday making sure our old snowblower would run, and Sunday carving paths through knee-high snow in the backyard so we could get to the garage and the gates. His first task was to circle around the house and dig out our front door so it would open. 

I was on the computer at the dining room table with the blinds open, so I expected to see him. I waited and waited a bit more until it dawned on me that he had been out of sight a long, long time. I went out into the blizzard, wind still raging, looking for the man, envisioning him face down in the snow somewhere. 

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The mid-storm view of the backyard. You will notice I cannot find my husband in it. Photo by Susan Mark.

Unbeknownst to me, a broken shovel handle delayed him. After repairing it, he realized he'd put the handle on backwards. Undo and repeat the process.

About the time I'm postholing through drifts in the back like some desperate woman in a tragic pioneer tale, he's at the front porch, knocking on the door and wondering where I am. He'd locked it and failed to take his keys. Fortunately, I got the idea to come inside and look through the other windows and rescued him.

Despite our comedy of errors where we lost track of each other, our experience of the storm was mild. We were safe, we were warm. The power clicked off only for a second just once, barely long enough that we had to reset the stove and microwave clocks. I spent Sunday weirdly obsessed with the weather, writing blizzard haiku.

snow falling sideways
like migrating birds, flying
​south for the winter

Yesterday, after my telework was done and my husband had managed to clear the walks, we took an evening and grabbed our gear. We skied up Dey Ave., stepping gingerly across the small stretch of bare pavement where 8th Ave. had been plowed and climbed the jumbled pile to find fresh snow.

We headed west for a quick view of the distant mountains, then ducked into Frontier Park. We heard, then saw a rotary plow -- a monstrous version of our snowblower -- heading north on I-25, spraying a rooster tail of snow high into the air. Usually they use these on the mountain passes in the spring, tall poles marking the invisible edges of the roads, but drifts were so deep they were using them on the main highways. 

No line at the restrooms. BYOS (Bring Your Own Shovel). Photo by Susan Mark.

On the trail with the husband. Photo by Susan Mark.

We tooled through the rodeo grounds to Old Trail Town, where during Cheyenne Frontier Days, the vendors set up shop in fake Old West storefronts along the walk. We refer to it as Fleece 'em Gulch. Until they built it, we could walk up there on concert nights, sit on the wooden fence and get a glimpse of the show for free. 

The wind had sculpted the snow into undulating drifts and whoop-de-doos -- a hoot to slide down. Pine trees lined the way. We skied along cornices and crossed over the construction zone where one of the facades had fallen during a windstorm, skis sliding over the hazard tape flush with the snow. The snow was wet, heavy and deep, and it supported our weight. I tried breaking trail here and there. Even with well-waxed skis it was exhausting, so I followed in his tracks. 

​We headed home, and I took a quick side trip to our alley to assess the trapped vehicle situation. The challenge in any deep snow is getting my car through the wee stretch of the alley between my garage door and the street. I rely on neighbors with better vehicles to pack it down. Not a soul had tried. The husband had cleared the concrete pad behind the doors, leaving a wall of snow somewhere between knee-height and thigh. That car is not getting out of that garage for a long, long time. When I go into the office Thursday, I'll be walking a mile and hoping more people than not have cleared their walks.

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I can drive anywhere I want, provided I stop two feet outside the garage door. Photo by Susan Mark.

Years ago I went to a Unitarian Church where we would share blessings and concerns (or something along those lines) during the service. After a spring snow during a drought year, I shared how I felt blessed by the snow turning the grass green and giving me hope.

The next person up shared the sad news that someone died of a heart attack…shoveling snow. I have proof positive it's physically impossible to drop through the floor of the church. I decided that hiding under the pew would only make matters worse. 

As a former ski bum with a garage full of gear, I make the best of the snow and enjoy it while I can. I also grasp it causes real hardship. Blizzards are dangerous creatures. I try never to forget that.

With that -- stay warm, stay well. May you have weathered the storm safely and maybe even found some joy and beauty in it.