Wow. I'm sitting here nursing sore, rubbery legs and I feel like I've been run over by the LCC freight train. It's been a whirlwind four days that contained even a few firsts for me. Saturday is already a blur, so I'll do my best to try to put the pieces together.

Saturday, 3/5: Day 59 - Alta

I skied with Amy, Pat, Telejon and his brother Malcolm, visiting from L.A. It was cloudy. Run of the day for me personally was through soft, chalky snow on Chartreuse Nose. Mistake of the day was skiing near Patsy Marley with Jon through an extremely variable crust. I recall quitting around 2 p.m., and that's just about all I can remember.

Sunday, 3/6: Day 60 - Snowbird with Crocker's crew

This is where the burn began. Again, I remember little of Sunday primarily due to the whiteout of the past two days. I picked up Tony Crocker at the airport and we headed up to Snowbird. I recall cloudy skies and flat light, and snowfall that began during the day. I remember things being a heck of a lot better after lunch than before, for after hooking up at the Rendezvous Restaurant with Skidog and Bobby Danger we headed up Peruvian (avoiding a full Tram maze in the process), through the tunnel and into Mineral where it was shin deep fluff. You could feel the sun crust through the new snow on steep lines like the lower Chamonix Chutes, but they were merely a means to reach a destination: Comma Chute. We all boot packed up to High Baldy Traverse and were disappointed to find the Armpit gate into Alta already closed. So we skied down to Wildcat via the ridgeline and hoofed up to the Comma Door. Crocker and a couple of others got too low out of the gate but were successful in rejoining us. Snow was soft and deep, even the sluff in the chute proper. All had an appreciation of skiing terrain new to them in Little Cottonwood Canyon.

Sunday night was Crocker's group's big dinner, but only after everyone congregated in the swimming pool per usual.



There was fortunately no massage line as in years past. Bobby picked up Mrs. Admin and brought her to the fiesta, and around 10 p.m. I drove down canyon in thick snowfall to bring her home. The drive was squirrely, at best. It hadn't been plowed in hours, and six inches or so of wet, greasy snow decorated the roadway as heavy snowfall limited visibility. It was "sporting," to say the least.

Monday, 3/7/11: Day 61 - Alta

I skied a couple of hours Monday morning around work, with Amy and Pat. I was actually disappointed, as the snow that fell overnight was very heavy and wet. We caught the rope drop to Backside, but the upper part was very challenging skiing before things improved markedly beyond the rollover adjacent to Glitch and Glatch halfway down. The snow stopped shortly after midnight, but the storm's second wave was moving in and it promised to be lighter and drier than the first wave's.

Tuesday, 3/8/11: Day 62 - Country Club runs

I've been trying for years to score what are known locally as "country club runs," skiing Little Cottonwood Canyon with the relative handful of resort guests while the road up the canyon remains closed. And I've never succeeded until today.

I took advantage of Crocker's pull-out couch at the Iron Blosam for Monday night to position myself for this morning. During happy hour I strode into the Wildflower to find a bunch of Crocker's group occupying a table of 30, devouring 33-cent wings and pitchers of beer. When they headed to the swimming pool, I returned to Tony's unit to wake him up and head back to the Wildflower for Round 2.

It was positively puking outside. It quickly became known that the canyon road would close at 8:30 p.m., and while many folks headed down ahead of the closure, others made other plans. Skrad, for example, got a room at the Cliff. Joel Gratz, whose name many will recognize as the Boulder, Colo.-based meteorologist who does our weekly weather column and who is the driving force behind ColoradoPowderForecast.com, abandoned plans to stay at my place to crash on Crocker's floor instead.



Lady Little Cottonwood, however, had other plans. By 7 p.m. or so traffic was stopped in both directions. Joel was allowed up as high as B gate before being turned around at 8 p.m. after three natural releases buried the roadway. We went into full Interlodge at 10 p.m. This was starting to look delicious.

It was still snowing when I awoke at 6:30 a.m. after enduring a night of Tony's snoring. Storm totals reached three feet. I quickly started gathering information to assess the situation. Road opening was projected for 8:30 a.m. It sounded as if Snowbird would open on time. I was already at Snowbird, and they open a full 15 minutes ahead of Alta, so Snowbird was an easy choice.

Interlodge was lifted around 8 a.m., but travel was still restricted to straight line between buildings and my skis were out in the car in the parking lot. Front desk staff, however, graciously advised that I would retrieve them only with a staff escort, and one of the managers, Jim, trudged out through deep snow to the lot to help me get them. I then had to return to the building to initiate my straight-line trip to Snowbird Center.

I arrived at the Tram line around 8:20 a.m. It was straight back and out the building, but there were clearly fewer than 100 people in front of me and that meant that we were in the first bucket of the day.

Although spread out in line, we all rejoined on the dock -- Tony, 20-somethings Eddie, Mark and Ben Solish (whom longtime readers may remember as the guy who took the ride in White Pine a couple of years ago), skrad and yours truly. By the time our cabin reached the Cirque we emerged from fog in the canyon floor to bright skies with glimpses of blue up high. This was going to be amazing.

Skrad struck off on his own. Silver Fox looked wind-affected. I didn't feel like being third, fifth, or twenty-fifth down Great Scott. So we headed for the Mid-Cirque. In retrospect, this was a good call as virtually everything from North Chute around to Jaws in the Upper Cirque had slid and was filled with avalanche debris.

One by one we pushed off the ridgeline into hip-deep fluff. I was ecstatic. Here we were skiing Snowbird with just a handful of overnight guests, as many didn't seem overly motivated to make it out for opening. The first five turns were orgasmic. Then, I fell.

I popped my ski back on and finished the run. High-fives were exchanged all around. Ben declared it the best lift-served run of his life. And we had time to do more, but then we realized that Mark was nowhere to be found. A quick phone call solved the mystery -- he was demoing S7s and lost a ski up on the Mid-Cirque Traverse. The $2 damage insurance doesn't cover lost skis, either. We were in no position to be able to return to help him, so we wished him luck and pushed on.

We got two more Peruvian laps in uncrowded, untracked bliss before the masses finally arrived from down canyon. After two hours of searching -- literally -- Mark finally found his missing ski, but by this time all of his effort to score early powder laps was for naught.

We had worked Peruvian for all it was worth, and the Tram was a full maze so we pushed down to Gadzoom instead to access Little Cloud. By now Joel had made it, but spotty cell service made a rendezvous nearly impossible. We were watching for Mineral Basin to open, and I had it on good authority that it would be somewhere around 11 a.m. I left Joel a message to meet us at the ropeline, and shortly after 11 o'clock we joined a seamless group of riders lining the rope from Hidden Peak to Path to Paradise.

I've seen controlled rope drops elsewhere, even at Snowbird, but this was a total crapshow. When patrol gave the signal, the entire horde ducked the rope simultaneously, Chinese downhill style. Snow directly below us looked windswept, but better goods appeared to lay below the Mineral Basin Express, so Ben and I gave the others a 10-second head start before we pushed off and angled to skier's left to reach the goods we were eyeing. Even then, though, it was like playing the 80s video game "Frogger." We somehow avoided direct contact and reached our line, which was exceptional although heavy as it had already begun to bake in the strong March sun.

The others reached the lift ahead of us, loading the lift even as we arrived to find a line already 20 minutes deep. Patrol had closed Path to Paradise at the Hyena Ridge gun turret, but I spotted what appeared to be clean lines along the ropeline so Ben and I decided to return for a second helping. We were thrilled, however, to find a gate in the ropeline halfway down Powder Paradise right as the first patron ventured through it. That left a good 30-40 acres for our second and third tracks.



By now the line was even longer than before, probably the longest I've ever seen down there, so a third lap was out of the question.



Ben and I decided instead to hike to the Baldy Traverse to see what we could find up there. Honestly, I've never seen that many people hiking the Peruvian ridgeline. It was a non-stop traffic flow. I didn't dare pull out of line to rest for I never would have found a space to step back into. I would have loved to, though, for by now my legs were feeling the pain of the weekend. Quads were knotting up. Not good.

We pushed all the way out the traverse, but I never expected to find the Armpit gate into Alta opened. From the looks of things Alta had only recently opened the Baldy Traverse. That meant a full Tombstone from the Armpit with hardly any tracks. It was so good that there was no point catching the traverse to get to the top of Wildcat. Even though Ben had no Alta ticket we skied the full length and booted up the road to the top terminal of Wildcat. We were shocked to see how empty Alta was, especially in comparison to Snowbird. Maybe one out of every 10 chairs coming up Wildcat had a body in it. Everywhere in Collins Gulch you actually had to look for a moment to spot a person. It was a sharp contrast to the feeding frenzy next door, although I'll readily admit that there were ample signs that the masses tore up the joint only hours earlier.

Ben wanted to return to Comma Chute, but I had other ideas. I made a beeline for my favorite secret spot and found not a single track in it at 1 p.m.

It was just that kind of day. It gave a whole new meaning for today's Mardi Gras to the term, "Fat Tuesday."

Ben kept skiing, but I was toast. I headed to Snowbird Center for lunch before trudging back to the Iron Blosam to retrieve my belongings and head down canyon. Before I could do so, however, I had to make use of my avalanche shovel.



Three cheers again to staffer Jim, who showed up almost immediately with a shovel in hand to lend to the effort.

In all the craziness, Joel and I never did hook up. I called him as I started down canyon.

"Boy, that worked out well, didn't it?" I joked.

Instead, he followed me to Chez Guido for après-ski beer en route to the airport. Good to finally meet you, Joel!