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EnCompass®
The AAA Companion |
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May | June 2004
Volume 78 Issue 3
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Feature Article
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| Photo: Utah Olympic Park
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Summer on the Slopes
In these four splendid Western alpine settings —
beyond Colorado's majestic borders — where you'd normally think of goggles, gloves and hot cocoa, you
can hike, bike, swim, raft, glide on an alpine slide, or catch rainbow trout. In some cases, you can even enjoy most of this plus the sports you'd typically find in January. And, if you're lucky, you can snag deals from muddled resort managers who still think it's the off-season. Please don't set them straight.
Park City, Utah
Who Needs Snow?
A little heat shouldn't get
in the way of your winter sports fantasy.
Park City in the summer is a winter playground dressed for warmer weather. Wheeled bobsleds rattle down runways. Aerial freestyle ski jumpers spring from plastic inclines—twisting, twirling, and pirouetting before splash landing in a swimming pool. It isn't the season for parkas or fresh powder, but that hardly matters. As I quickly discovered in this tidy resort town a half hour's drive from Salt Lake City, some people are so mad about all things alpine that they keep strapping on their boots and bindings even when the snow is gone.
On a sky-blue afternoon, as the sun baked down on the Wasatch Range, I stood in my ski gear at a Park City landmark: Utah Olympic Park. The site of 14 events during the 2002 Winter Games, Olympic Park today is an athletic training ground that doubles as a fantasy camp. Real Olympians come to hone their skills. Non-Olympians come to try their hand at sports like bobsled and luge, which only seem like they're restricted to guys with umlauts in their names.
I'd shown up for Freestyle 101, an introductory class in aerial ski jumping that the park holds six days a week. My instructor was known for his triple-twisting backflips. My classmates were young boys named Thayne and Dakota who looked as if they'd been born on skis.
On my maiden jump, I slid down a ramp of artificial grass and belly flopped into the training pool. Dakota giggled; it was entertaining viewing. But Park City in the summer months is all about taking part. Wherever you go, there are things to ride here—horses and hot air balloons, merry-go-rounds and mountain bikes. Wrapped around Park City are 300 miles of cycling trails.
At Park City Mountain Resort, I eased toward the summit on a six-person chairlift. At a midmountain station, attendants wrapped me sausage style into a harness and hurled me back down on the exhilarating ZipRider, a rig that works like a ski lift in reverse, only speedier. Dangling from a cable, I soared through the treetops like a flying squirrel.
The pace is a little slower on Main Street, a historic district of gift shops and upscale dining. But even downtown, there's no avoiding the mountains' pull. Art galleries sell paintings of spread-eagled skiers. The local historical society and museum has a room given over to downhill sports.
All around town, you see the tousled hair and ruddy cheeks of people who spend most of their time outdoors. They look healthy and contented, though I suspect they're merely biding their time, waiting for the change of seasons, when the snow begins to fall in downy blankets and winter starts to look like winter again.
—Josh Sens
Sun Valley, Idaho
Gone Fishin'
Take a lesson from a pro
and catch a trout to write home about.
Ask not for whom the trout strikes; it strikes for you. When Ernest Hemingway wasn't bagging game or banging on his Underwood in Ketchum, he was landing rainbows and browns at spots like Silver Creek, the Big Wood, or the Big Lost River. These Western streams promise a range of blue-ribbon fishing grounds—some perfect for intrepid beginners, others for experts like Papa.
My own grandpa, Boppa, fly-fished too, and his spirit inhabits my cast—especially at 6 a.m. on Silver Creek, a tricky river noted for frequent insect hatches. This spring-fed, slow-moving stream is flanked by grassy vegetation, making it a perfect habitat for mayflies, caddises, and wily trout. The key? Match the ?y with what's hatching, then cast and drift it delicately.
When the sun warmed my back, I finally got lucky and the glittery thrash was mine. But fly-fishing isn't about numbers; it's about windless blue skies, the push of the current against your waders, and the mystery of what lies beneath. Each stream has a voice of its own. Later that day I tackled the Big Wood, a bossy freestone river that runs right through Ketchum, with plenty of public access. It's suitable for all levels of fly-fishers, though some parts are limited to catch-and-release.
My big thrill, however, arrived the next day. The Big Lost River is an hour's journey into the mountains. My personal guide, Tommy, from Bill Mason Outfitters, drove hell-bent over gravel roads to what I call heaven: dazzling private waters, sagebrush, and the yellow splash of a western tanager among the cottonwood trees. In the midst of this idyll, Tommy growled about my casting, disapproved of my slow uptake on a strike, and corrected my reeling style. Annoyed, I nonetheless adjusted my technique and soon a three-pound rainbow whomped on the line. Tommy cheered. By day's end I'd not only landed (and released) several more monster fish, I'd added new skills to my creel.
That night, happily fatigued, I was welcomed back to the historic Sun Valley Lodge radiating its rugged elegance. I pictured Hemingway returning from a day with Gary Cooper, lugging in a string of trout for the European chef to prepare. Before sleep, I could almost hear the clickety-clack of typewriter keys down the hall in Room 206 where he completed For Whom the Bell Tolls. I uttered a blessing to the ghosts of Papa and Boppa and dreamed everything silver.
—Christine Hemp
Lake Tahoe, Calif.
Four-footed Hiking
A dog is your copilot—on
the chairlift.
Suspect No. 1: Casey, a stubborn, arthritic terrier with her eye on an innocent squirrel. Suspect No. 2: her lieutenant, Franklin, a stout corgi occasionally mistaken for some sort of miniature circus bear. Both were last seen boarding a ski lift at Northstar—at—Tahoe, and while they would like to be regarded as fanged and dangerous, they threaten no one other than themselves. Approach with plenty of treats.
So began a day in the woods with my two favorite canine pioneers. There's so much to love about Lake Tahoe in the summer; no wonder it's a paradise for four-legged friends as well. My own mutts, I believe, dream all winter long of warm, sunny days when they'll return to the mountainside as terrors of the timberland.
Unlike California's state parks, where dogs are often barred from hiking trails, Northstar and many other ski resorts welcome pets on designated paths in summer. It's not cheap—at Northstar, summertime lift tickets run $15 per adult and $10 per dog—but the mountaintop views can be astounding. And beyond these civilized confines are 220 miles of trails through the glorious Lake Tahoe Basin. Dogs are permitted here, too, and many of the paths are level and relatively free of mountain bikes—ideal for pampered lapdogs. Among the most scenic trails: Meiss Meadows, Echo Lakes, Angora Lakes, and Lily Lake.
Wherever you hike, it's wise to keep your dog on a leash or under verbal control. (Check with the resorts as regulations can vary from place to place.) Bring plenty of water; the high temperatures approach 80 degrees in July and August, which makes for thirsty pets. Do scoop any poop, to help protect the Tahoe watershed from pet-borne pollution. And don't allow your dogs, as tempted as they may be, to chase or otherwise harass the wildlife.
At Northstar, Casey and Franklin were whisked up the mountain in a plastic kennel strapped to a chairlift—probably not how White Fang would travel. But the indignity didn't dim their enthusiasm for the outdoors, and soon after leaving the lift, we were romping among pines. As Casey studied a menacing field mouse, Franklin made for a blue alpine lake, eager for a swim. Around there, it really is a dog's life.
—Michael Mason
Whistler, B.C.
Ride On, Canada
There's a cycling heaven for daredevils and darenots.
As I watched a mob of gonzo cyclists careen down the slopes of Whistler Mountain Bike Park last summer, I feared I'd stumbled into a Mad Max movie.
A swarm of heavily armored bikers bobbed and swerved over a dusty swath of dirt moguls that had been built into the lower slope. They caught air, then crashed to earth again on their solidly suspended two-wheeled steeds. At the base of the mountain, in the broad cobblestone plaza of Whistler Village that marks the entrance to the park, riders encased in visored helmets and molded body armor popped wheelies, chatted with buddies, and queued up to board a retrofitted ski lift that whisked them—and their bikes—back to the top for another teeth-chattering descent.
I wanted to drop my rental bike and run. But that would have been a big mistake. Though the park's 63 miles of expert-designed trails and highly engineered terrain have made Whistler the Valhalla of mountain biking and home to an international competition every summer, it's only the start of what makes the mountain and its environs a genuinely delightful biking area for eperts and beginners alike.
Beyond bustling Whistler Village (where chalet-style hotels, restaurants, and bike shops bump up against an abundance of physical therapy offices) lies a quiet valley best explored on two wheels. Over the course of a few days, I pedaled through towering stands of cedar and fir and ascended to rocky outcrops with panoramic views. I rolled along hewn-timber bridges over winding rivers and spied on salmon as they spawned in the shadows below. Bike trails at Whistler skirt five pristine lakes, where bathers both human and canine romped before a backdrop of 7,000-foot mountains capped with snow.
My mud-spattered colleagues may differ with me, but it is this cyclist's firm conviction that there are few greater thrills than pedaling oh-so-slowly through Whistler's level, sun-dappled valley, admiring the soaring peaks from below. Now that's adventure.
—Darcy Brown-Martin
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