Fresh Snow on Mt. Sopris Signals Aspen Ski Season Return

Aspen —It sort of snuck in, thinking we weren’t expecting it. When the clouds finally lifted over the valley, there it was: fresh snow on the peaks.

For folks around here, that sight usually triggers a specific question. Does it actually mean we’re getting a real storm? Or is it just another false hope, a visual trick played by the atmosphere before the sun bakes the powder into ice?

An Aspen High School English teacher, known locally as Mr. Fitz, had a definitive answer for that exact scenario. He told a group of old grads — standing in about six inches of fresh snow in front of the fire department — that if Mt. Sopris is draped in fog for three or four days running, it’s gonna snow in Aspen. That’s what you get from a Michigan boy. Rest in peace, Mr. Fitz.

The Aspen Times reported on this observation in a column titled "Saddle Sore: Fresh snow." The piece captures the specific, almost electric feeling that new snow brings after a dry winter and summer. For skiers in the valley, it’s exhilarating. It signals that there is no turning back from the season.

But the fresh snow isn’t just a weather event; it’s a trigger for memory. The column recounts how, back in the 1970s, skiing was a communal ritual for many students. It wasn’t just about the sport; it was about the people you met on the slopes and in the school hallways.

As a fourth-grader, the author found himself hanging out with older kids like Don Stapleton, Gerry Morse, and Tommy Moore. He spent Wednesday afternoons in the science room while everyone else went skiing or ice skating, learning to build model airplanes with the older guys and being teased, pleasantly - by girls like Faith Taylor, Judy Waterman, and Fleeta Rowland. He almost had more fun hanging out with them than he did skiing.

The social dynamics of the slopes were complex. Not all students were racers, and weekends often involved mixing groups. Some had ski passes; some didn’t. This led to a specific Saturday gig: trying to get three or four people on the Highlands lift without buying tickets. The strategy involved two boys putting a girl between them, with one pretending she was having difficulty operating her skis. When they approached the lift operator or ticket checker, she would fall down, or one of the boys would catch her and hold her up. A third boy with a ticket prominently displayed would stand near the checker, helping with the scenario. The "nice guy" at the ticket booth would ensure they all got to the loading area, and no one checked who actually had tickets. The author admits he doesn’t remember it ever failing, though he concedes the ticket checker may have known more about their shenanigans than they thought and simply let it slide.

By senior year, the focus shifted slightly. Classmate Jim Bixler, a transplant from Denver, pushed for trips to ski areas further east. They usually took Katie and Susie along on these expeditions, not only because they were excellent skiers but because they were a lot of fun to be around.

The column includes a photo of Tony Vagneur with a broken leg, given to him by Judy Waterman Huston the night he was inducted into the Aspen Hall of Fame in 2012. It’s a reminder that for many, the sport came with physical costs; broken legs and serious injuries scattered throughout the winter.

Stand there long enough and you realize that the snow on the peaks isn’t just about the next run. It’s a marker of time, a return to those specific afternoons in the science room and the chaotic mornings at the Highlands lift. The fog on Sopris might be a reliable predictor, but the memory of who was standing next to you in that snow is what sticks.