Column: Making it in Missoula

Shredding in Missoula

By Little Sis, 12-12-06

	The Snowbowl Lodge on opening weekend this year. New West file photo by Matt Cochran.

Winter in Missoula means fewer bikers on the road, leaving only the most courageous to face the icy mud while the rest of us make a run for the bus stop. It means endless holiday parties, mostly raising money for the 900 non-profits and good causes in this town. It means difficulty finding a table in the Old Post because everyone is still a little surprised that the overflow deck space is covered in snow (and because chairs mysteriously disappear on an increasing basis as the night progresses, leaving people standing helplessly at a table with no chairs and hovering expectantly over those with enough luck to find seating).

But mostly, winter in Missoula means skiing. It’s time to move the inner tubes and mountain bike out of the way so you can put your various pairs of skis in the honored spot in the garage for easy access.

Since moving to Missoula, I’ve experienced the phenomenon of never feeling badass enough. This town is a hub of extreme recreation, like Moab or the campgrounds of Joshua Tree. And so, in an attempt to extend my hard-core image (read: I can only climb a 5.8), I learned to ski at Snowbowl, which is notorious for lacking green runs. Hot Fudge would never count anywhere else as a green with that dropoff in the middle.

And, I hate to admit it, but the junior-high girl inside wants the shredder boys to like me.

At first I was miffed about the production involved in getting yourself on the mountain. You have to dig out all your clothes; a typical skiing outfit involves long underwear, wool socks, snow pants, various smelly capilene layers, giant gloves, helmet, and goggles. Thus encased, you then strap on the boots and make the skiier’s saunter (or waddle, depending on how adept you are at walking in boots that don’t bend at the ankle) up to the lodge. This is when you curse the driver for parking in the very last row by the ice slick.

This lack of freedom of movement is the source of the phenomenon that people constantly run into each other and everyone’s in your way in or near the lodge. You can see the collision coming, but you can’t jump out of the way wearing 30 pounds of gear. Maybe you can if you’re badass.

The most exciting part at the lodge is to see how everyone else is dressed, but because Snowbowl is so no-nonsense, this is more fun at places like Discovery and Lookout. Last weekend at Lookout, I noticed the unfortunate return of the 80’s snowbunny look. Or maybe these were just people who never got new snow pants after the pinnacle pair of hot pink or red. The amount of leopard prints, earmuffs, and full snowsuits was disturbing, but at least it provided for comic relief on the lift.

If you don’t have ridiculous outfits to discuss, you can turn to the ever-fascinating lift conversations, especially if you’re forced to yell out “Single!” and take your chances. You can hear entire life stories, be generously offered a swig from a flask, or talk awkwardly about the weather for 15 long minutes. Luckily, Snowbowl is so populated with hot shredders that sometimes my girlfriends and I yell out “Single!” anyway. One of them actually got a date that way last season.

Finally, you make it to a run! Unless you’re at Snowbowl, and then you just make it to the second chair lift. After the 45 minutes it took to get there because the first lift broke.

Just kidding. Skiing this way is probably the most fun because it’s the most social and full of surprises (unless you consider an avalanche while backcountry skiing a fun surprise). This is even more true when the mountain is the only thing in a 30-mile radius poking out of the inversion layer in the valley, so it’s populated with all of your friends. (Which is mysterious, because shouldn’t they be at work?)

Okay, you’re right, none of this reeks of “badass” (except for the flask swig, but that might just be irresponsible). But I’m working on it. On my cute sky-blue Salomons, I’m starting to ski through the trees. Which means I weave through one or two and then get freaked out, shooting back into the open and taking out an 8-year-old—who probably skis better than I ever will anyway, so I take secret satisfaction from it.

And, although this isn’t badass at all, the best closer to a day on the mountain is the bloody mary at the bar, which is obligatory on our mountain. It’s your chance to tell your stories and be fluent in the language, to see more people you know than you ever will at Charlie’s, and then drive home on the icy road with the sheer drop after that pitcher you decided you needed because you weren’t brave enough yet to talk to that hot shredder you always see.

So, while I’m not certified hard-core yet, winter in Missoula means the same thing to me as it means to the majority of the population: keep a close watch on your 8-year-old near the treeline.

Quotes of the week:
“I’ve never seen so many snowboarders before. It’s like watching wildlife.”

“I don’t know if that’s badass or just stupid.”
“It’s amazing how often those two go hand-in-hand.”

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