GMD DISPATCH: Alta, Utah: Population 397
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As we came around Cardiff Pass, the sun, just beginning to rise above Grizzly Gulch, the final aspect of our route to Mount Superior came into view. The rocky and steep knife-edge ridge stretched long enough to intimidate us in to questioning if we should really be there. I was with the Stanford-bound 18-year-old, a fellow employee of the Goldminer's Daughter Lodge. After taking an avie course together we made it our goal to ski Superior before the season ended.
Mount Superior provides an epic and legendary backdrop to Alta. For months I have gazed at the face, marveling at the few lines coming down it. I wanted one of my own. With the skies clear, the snowpack stable and our ambition raging, we mutually, yet separately decided Monday was our day. We started our 3,300-foot climb at 6:30 with the dawn sky casting a lonely light on the town below. As we reached the summit about three hours later, we were surprised to see that skiing from the peak would be relatively mellow. As we dropped in from the top we skied on a crusty layer, but as we pushed over to the ridges the snow became soft and we were able to open up our turns. Once to the bottom, about 3,000 feet below, we marveled at our lines and then hitched a quick ride back to Alta.
Two days earlier we had climbed East Castle and stood on the ridge next to the Devil's Castle peak, astounded by the amount of skiing in this mountain range. But the view from the top of Superior was vastly more dramatic. We could see into Snowbird, Alta, Brighton, Solitude, Park City and all the terrain in between. And being able to see into both the town of Alta and the metropolis of Salt Lake City provided a striking juxtaposition and a reminder of how rewarding it is to live in such a small, rich and unique community.
Even among ski towns, the Alta community remains quiet. I recently had to run an errand in Park City. It had been awhile since I had gotten out of Little Cottonwood Canyon so I made a night out of my trip. While there I got depressed over fur stores and the general artificialness of the city and drank at a variety of bars until I was able to pass out in my car for the night. As I drove by the sign that read Alta, Pop. 397 on my way back up the canyon, I was thankful for this place with such impressive mountains located just twenty minutes from a major city that has managed to remain so small and genuine. As the North American ski industry turned to the development of resort villages and condos, Alta has preserved a real skiing experience, with just a few lodges and a couple dozen other dwellings.
When I decided to move to Alta from the Northwest many of my friends questioned why I wasn't going to a resort with a more lively social reputation -- like Tahoe, Whistler or Aspen. But there is something comforting in living in a town where time is demarcated by snowfall. A town with no grocery store and spotty cell phone service -- a place where you never have to drive but always have to shovel out your car so snowplows don't run into it and Backcountry Bobs don't ski over it, a place where you can tell how much snow has fallen overnight by the amount of light that penetrates through your basement window and the number of bombs that wake you up, and a place where all the bartenders know your face and understand when you race from work to order a personal pitcher at last call. And perhaps best of all, this is a place where 500 inches of snow is completely normal. As we near the end of the season, I think it is these qualities and the grand mountains around us that will define my memories of my season in this anomalous town.
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