The T-bar lift at Breckenridge picks up skiers and snowboarders at an altitude of just under 11,000 feet and deposits them on a ridge just above 12,000 feet. I began riding this lift in 2001, my first winter in Colorado. I needed 20 seasons to figure out the truth about The T-Bar: it is a connection machine. The terrain of North Bowl and Horseshoe Bowl served by the T-bar is very difficult. The T-bar itself is an exercise of balance and fortitude just to get to the top. Skiers and riders underestimate the skill required to be launched uphill by a thin curved plastic perch, often to their embarrassment. I myself have chanted “no second chances” along with the crowd when a fallen rider tries to shuffle his way back to the front of the lift line to mount the t-bar again. I have no sympathy for these people. On a clear day, the ridge at the top of the T-bar overlooks the town, and peaks beyond for what feels like miles in all directions. Most rides uphill are cloudy, windy, and end with one hand stiff from holding on to the handle and one side of my face frozen from wind blowing across the track. The weather rarely allows me to linger on the ridge, catch my breath, and enjoy the view. The wind forms what I call ‘Brecken-Slab’ on the first hundred meters of the snow inside the upper bowls. The slab is a crust of frozen, wind-scoured snow that can be knee-twisting if it catches a ski and clamps down while the skier tries to turn. The slab does not suffer fools and rewards direct engagement and forward pressure. To ski the slab in uniform, consistent arcs is an exercise in physical ambition. If I can be brave and consistent, if I can ignite the next turn before fear of crashing grabs hold of my edges, then and only then will I feel the satisfying crunch of the slab breaking under the steel of my edges and reach the soft snow below where I can float without resistance. How can I appreciate the silent, liquid speed of gliding over the crystalline surface of fresh snow without the trial and victory over the slab above? I have to be enough for the slab to enjoy the powder.
The t-bar is easiest to ride with a partner but I have ridden many a t-bar alone with only one side of the T under the seat of my pants. The track of the Breck t-bar is steep. I have to lean back into the loose shelf on which my rear end balances, while holding my poles between the two fingers of my outstretched hand. I have to keep my skis pointing forward or else they will wander and take me off course. In recent years, I began taking trips to Breckenridge to ski alone. These last two seasons I would glide into the lift line and search out a t-bar partner by yelling out ‘solo!’ into the waiting crowd. I used to yell ‘single’ but that began to sound sad after my divorce. Early in our courtship, Alice and I rode the t-bar. Despite being an admitted lower intermediate skier, she wanted to see the world from the North Bowl ridge as I do. She negotiated the one groomed track back down to the t-bar with slow deliberate arcs. I think back to those runs with the dumbest of hope. Now yell ‘solo’ and see who will have me as a counterbalance. The ideal partner is equivalent to my height and weight, so neither has to keep a tight grip on the bar. Not many tall expert skiers linger in lift lines waiting for a shout, so I take what I can get. Aside from access to some of my favorite terrain, I have grown to enjoy the conversations on the t-bar. Two strangers forced shoulder to shoulder, their hands almost holding one another along the plastic stem of the T-handle, relying on each other’s weight for balance form a fast bond.
One day last season, after putting out the lift line mating call, I woman turned her head, looked me up and down, and answered that I looked like I knew what I was doing. My heart swelled with pride. We partnered for ten minutes, alone together, and talked. I mentioned that I bought a season’s pass for the first time in years. She asked where I plan to explore with my new pass. The question caught me by surprise and I had no answer. I replied that I did not know yet, I had been taking that winter one snowfall at a time. I asked if she wished to join me for a run but she politely declined, explaining that she instructed in the afternoons and took the mornings to ski alone and clear her mind. How could I argue? At the top of the track she floated from her side of the T and vanished into Horseshoe Bowl in a blur of pastel gore-tex.
In line again that day, I called out and a man replied that he would like to ride with me but the T-bar makes him nervous. I was now faced with a moral dilemma. Years ago, the last time I took a chance on a rookie I did not know, he let me down. He proclaimed himself a capable expert but as soon as the t-bar track became steep, he began to wobble and paw at the handle, then my coat. Fearing he would pull the both of us down to the snow, I performed a subtle, barely perceptible flex of the arm he tried to grab. He lost his grip and slid from the t-bar, collapsing to the snow in a heap. I did not look back. Looking at the frightened man asking to join me now, I flashed back to that ride years ago and wondered if I would have to throw another person overboard to save myself. Instead, I took the opportunity to help, as others had helped me when I had been new to this frightening sport. I waved him over and told him I think we will be fine. He settled into his side of the T and the cable pulled us forward. His grip on the handle in front of him tightened. He admitted his balance is not great but he enjoys the challenge of the upper bowls. I complimented him on his attitude and suggested that the snow that day felt smooth and soft. At the top of the track, I offered to let him slide away from the T first, and I would hang on after he got clear to throw the handle away so it could retract upward and return to base. He thanked me and said, “You’re a positive guy, you really made this ride much better.”
My next t-partner was a well dressed skier who told me he is a robot surgeon. I could not help myself and asked if robots make better patients than humans. He chuckled and explained that he is a surgeon who specializes in controlling robot arms that perform surgery. He mentioned that this would be his last run, despite the wonderful snow, and in all likelihood he would “hear it'' from his wife for staying on the mountain too long. I told him I had recently shed that problem from my life. ‘That’s good’, he replied, and offered some free advice as a man in his second marriage: “marry rich this time around, there’s plenty of time to fall in love later”. I thanked him and promised to think on his words, which I did for the next few seconds until I decided he is a twice-unhappy operator of robotic machinery and dismissed his advice.
In the summer months after my separation, I would drive up to Breck for a day of biking or a short weekend retreat from the heat of the Boulder high desert. I love the hills in summer for the same reason I love the T-Bar and its slab in the winter. The terrain is not easy. The air is thin and makes pedaling uphill even more difficult. The trails reward effort and focus with tunnels of aspen leaves or views of distant peaks from the saddle. I spent my birthday weekend of the pandemic year 2020 at a rented studio in downtown Breck. I spent two days grinding my way up steep loose dirt. My birthday falls in peak leaf turning season so my reward at the top of each climb had been views of hillsides covered in yellow-orange light of the turning Aspen leaves. I could lose myself in one of my favorite downhill sections flanked by the low rattle of these yellow leaves singing to me while I rode past, dust clinging to the sunscreen on my legs, hands loose on the grips of my mountain bike, fingers resting on brake levers. I love Breck because the mountains eat my pain. I feed them the fear of a life out of my control and the mountains eat that fear. I am left a little more hollow at the bottom of each run, ready to be filled up again by something better.
A March snowstorm deposited a foot and a half of snow on Breckenridge. I escaped to the high bowls as fast as the lifts could carry me. I found myself in line for the T-bar once again. I looked around and saw a guy of similar proportions and yelled, “Hey, Tall guy!” He turned his head and I asked if I could ride with him. He agreed and I skipped ahead in line to join him. While we waited, we saw a snowboarder being dragged uphill on his belly. He held on to the t-bar with arms wrapped around the handle for dear life. He had been the subject of ridicule throughout the lift line. When our turn arrived at the loading point, the lift attendant slid the T handle between us and we leaned against our sides of the bar and prepared for launch. Sometimes the bar lurches because of a pause somewhere along the cable. This lurch caused his skis to slide into mine and somehow his boot buckles snagged on my boot buckles and he began to topple in my direction. I am an experienced skier and t-bar rider so, without thinking, I dug the opposite edges into the snow, leaned into his weight, and said “I got you, man, I got you.” I don’t know why I made this statement of unconditional support to a stranger. He righted himself and we continued our uphill ride without incident. We told a few stories of other t-bar rides and reviewed our favorite runs from the top. All had returned to normal. The T-bar taught me one more lesson that day in perfect, ice cold metaphorical fashion: I have to be enough for myself to be of any value to the person beside me, or we will both fall down. When we reached the ridge line, I thanked him for his counterbalance and offered him first exit. After he slid away toward Horseshoe Bowl, I threw the t-bar handle forward and pointed my skis toward the wide open field of fresh snow in North Bowl.