It’s Snowing Texans in Beautiful Colorado
Few sights compare to the breathtaking nature of winter snowstorms — fresh powder on a ski slope, or the sun setting behind a mountain range. To a Coloradan these sights could seem insignificant.
But for Texans, access to these stunning views comes rather infrequently as the state inherently lacks winter, skiing and mountains.
For this reason, Texans can be found migrating dozens of hours each winter in an annual display of adulation for these scarce, yet sacred, environments.
As for my friends and I, we are those Texans, and we met many other Texans along the mountain slopes in beautiful Colorado this past January.
The Means
It takes around 15 hours by car to drive up any Colorado ski mountain if you’re traveling from Austin — a small price to pay for my close-knit friend group that manages to take the trip every winter. Frankly, because what else can a group of college students do with a month away from school?
This year, a blindfolded dart throw led us to Crested Butte, a mining community turned ski destination about 30 miles south of Aspen, in the southern Colorado Rockies.
Naturally, as college students, frugality prevented us from staying directly on the mountain. Instead, we stayed at the Econo Lodge in a small town called Gunnison, residing amongst the locals.
Gunnison, an early railroad trading depot, consists of two main roads that intersect at a town square. There are few restaurants in Gunnison, and even fewer spots for the group of 32 twenty-somethings to find a drink after hours.
Day One
Accounting for traffic and weather, Gunnison was about 45 minutes from the mountain at Crested Butte and, as any avid skier or snowboarder knows, a good day on the mountain starts by catching the very first chairlift up. This meant that by 7:30 a.m., we were out the door.
However, not everyone in the group considered themselves to be a longtime fan of mountain life.
Our group consisted of first-timers, people who hadn’t skied in over a decade and even a Canadian citizen who spent more time in skis than regular shoes in his 22 years of life. With over 120 trails and 15 chair lifts, all skill levels were accommodated for on the trip, making Crested Butte a particularly favored destination.
Overall, the first day on the mountain was bittersweet. The trip was planned perfectly before any notable winter storms had set in, meaning the mountain at Crested Butte was well under the average annual snowfall of 236 inches (nearly 20 feet). On the more frequently traveled trails, exposed rocks, mud and patches of grass wreaked havoc on the group’s perfect mountain day. Sunny weather on Sunday also brought everyone to the slopes, turning the lift queue into a lengthy endeavor.
Despite the obstacles, the friends more versed in skiing enjoyed themselves on the less-traveled back bowls of the mountain, where ski country untouched by the snow plows welcomed them.
It was there that we had our first encounter with a fellow Texas (Amarillo) resident, introduced to us as Dr. Weinheimer.
Dr. Weinheimer, an otolaryngologist, also known as an ear, nose and throat doctor, along with his wife and three children, had also traveled by road to Crested Butte. He had grown up skiing, and as his kids were becoming old enough to ski themselves, he wanted to share that memorable experience with his family.
That day was his last full day in Colorado. While the rest of his family stayed back at the resort, Dr. Weinheimer took a fleeting opportunity to enjoy a solitary moment on the slopes for what would likely be his last time in 2024. Admittedly, he did not want to miss any chance to shred the mountain while he was there.
We ended our first day in Crested Butte battered, most of us covered in bruises, our hands and faces red from the unrelenting wind and cold.
In spite of the less-than-ideal conditions on the mountain, it was hard to find a face that wasn’t painted with a childlike grin in the group.
It might have been the satisfaction of a long road trip finally paying off, the gorgeous day we had the privilege of experiencing, or more likely, a combination of both.
That night, we made our way to the Alamo Bar and Saloon, a local hangout where drinks are served until 2 a.m. and, somehow, indoor smoking is still allowed – even encouraged. Becoming acquainted with a few of the regulars, the group learned valuable insider knowledge about places to eat, like Mario’s Pizza and The Powerstop. Most importantly, about the storm that would roll in that very night a storm that somehow went undetected on our weather apps, but was apparent to the friends we made that night. Somehow, the locals were right.
The second and third days skiing were wildly different from the first.
Day Two
We woke to a thick sheet of snow covering our cars and the roads. Plows were already hard at work, clearing the flurries from the streets as fast as they could, but in many places, the snow was faster.
Arriving at the resort that Monday morning, we could barely contain our excitement. Crested Butte was a different town that day — a winter wonderland that truly captured the essence of a quaint mountain town. The slopes followed suit; It was one of those days we would look back at and dream about. It was perfect in every sense.
It was then that they met the second notable Texan of their journey: Ethan, the 13-year-old daredevil hailing from Dallas. Being from Texas, Ethan said he didn’t ski as much as he would like to, and he made that very clear on our short chair lift together. Instead, he found joy in other ways that surely worried his own mother to no end, such as riding his dirt bike and playing football for his middle school team.
Like most who enjoy skiing and snowboarding, Ethan seemed to crave the adrenaline of extreme sports. Introduced to skiing by his family, he has been partaking in mountain life since he was just six years old, making this the seventh winter in a row he has traveled to Crested Butte for an annual indulgence in the powder and rush of the mountain.
As we exited the chair lift, Ethan bid farewell and hauled off down the mountain, faster than any kid we had seen.
The second day ended and we returned to the homely Econo Lodge.
My friends and I found ourselves back at the Alamo Saloon, where we were greeted with the many familiar faces we met the night before.
Day Three
The third day on the mountain went similarly. Remnants of the previous night’s storm were slowly fading, but ever present. Since it was the middle of the week, lift lines were short and people on the mountain were sparse.
After two days of hard skiing, we decided to take it easy, basking in the Colorado mountain sunshine.
Deciding to end the day a little early, we ate our final lunch at the mountain peak, snacking on smushed sandwiches and battered chips from our jacket pockets.
After lunch, we moved our tired legs down the slopes to the base area one last time.
Like a magnificent conclusion to the trip, we met another unfamiliar Texan face on the trip. Halfway down the slope, a man paused by the trees, wearing a Texas A&M University football jersey. As any true rival would, one friend in our group smiled a wide Texas Longhorn grin, put up their horns and sailed past, giving the Aggie the slightest nod they could muster before taking off their skis for the final time that trip.
Returning to Gunnison, there was only one loose end to tie up. My friend group again wound up at the Alamo Saloon, where we melancholically informed our new clique of the unfortunate news that we would be leaving the next morning. Many of the locals seemed reluctant to bid farewell, although others probably rejoiced that our invasion into Gunnison was coming to an end.
Despite the short time we spent in Colorado, we felt deeply connected to the community we stumbled upon. From the locals we bantered with every night at the bar, to the familiar Texan faces we saw in passing on the mountain, all of us felt connected in some way by our love for the breathtaking state we found ourselves in.
The End
The morning was eerily quiet. The Econo Lodge wasn’t buzzing with activity, rooms were being soundly slept in. There was no rush. It was apparent that my friend group of twenty-somethings collectively shared a warm feeling of solemn reverence for our fleeting time in Colorado. We dressed in silence, loaded our vehicles and began the journey back home to Austin.
We didn’t see a single car for the next hour or so. If one did pass, we didn’t notice. I was too busy smiling at the mountains in the rearview mirror, knowing one day, we might meet again.
I think I may have left a part of myself somewhere between here and Crested Butte, but I have hope it will soon find itself in the hands of another Texan along the winding roads that eventually turn into mountain slopes in beautiful Colorado.
Photos by Cheney Stephenson