Searching for the High Rustler

I have been skiing since I was 3. My family used to ski every weekend when I was young. My parents were part owners of a little ski area in Southwest Colorado. My first skis had cable bindings and safety straps. My second pair of boots were lace-up.

Anyway. I skied during high school and squandered much of my first couple of college years on the slopes. Well, not squandered, really, but it did distract me from my studies. I have a lot of pleasant memories skiing with friends and family. I remember skiing with girls I wanted to date, and trying to show off. As I recall, my good skiing never got me a date. Sometimes when I ski now, I get the weirdest melancholy moments riding chair lifts--recalling those times.

Back to the present. My one complaint about Alta is not really worthy of a complaint. Their runs are not very well marked. But the snow is just unbelievable. Growing up in Colorado I heard about Utah powder. I hate to say it, but Colorado has no snow like Alta. No long steep slopes without moguls that just take your breath away.

Where was I? I decided to ski Alta's signature run--High Rustler, but couldn't find it. I had the funniest moment on the chair lift when I asked this guy about Rustler. He looked at me and then sounded suspiciously like Obi Wan. "You won't find High Rustler. You don't want to find High Rustler."

The next day, I realized that the run was right in front of my face--kind of. As you looked at the mountain from the bottom, this scary-ass moguled run catches your eye. High Rustler.

On our third day, I vowed to ski it. Had to. Getting there was a trick, and I kept thinking of the book I was reading at night (Into the Wild) as I made my way along this ridge. At several points, I rehearsed how I would tell my story: "It was actually harder getting there than skiing the actual run."

Wrong. I worked my way around a cliff (seriously) and shot out of a narrow traverse between trees to the run. Holy shit. Steep.

Steep. Steep enough that each turn scares me a little. I know I can make the turn, but my heart jumps a bit anyway. Then I look down the rest of the run and know that I have to make a lot more turns to make it. By the end, exhausted and grinning ear-to-ear, I get on the lift for the next run. According to the locals, the next one needs to be one called the Bone Crusher.