Photos of people skiing at Alta flood my Facebook feed, and my heart quickens at the sight. A week before, a large storm dropped over a foot of snow in the high country, and the die-hards are getting after it on a Wednesday morning. I like to consider myself a die-hard, but not to the point that I’m willing to ski on a scant snowpack where my skis hit bare ground at the bottom of every turn. But still, it took a lot of patience to restrict myself from driving up Little Cottonwood Canyon for an annual welcoming of winter with skis on my feet. Instead, I go mountain biking.
“I’ve never seen so many people in Dry Creek before,” I say to Mason Diedrich after we descend the popular Salt Lake City canyon on our mountain bikes. It is November 15th, and the day is far nicer than it should be. Temperatures are in the upper 50’s, a light breeze blows in from the south, and the sky is a blank slate of blue, just waiting for a storm to sketch an illustration of clouds and, Ullr willing, snow. Sure, snow has come across the state, enough to cover trails in Park City and even Corner Canyon down in the valley. As a result, the Bonneville Shoreline Trail is the only dry singletrack in three counties, and, judging by the amount of people flooding Dry Creek, everybody knows it.
As we continue our ride south back to the Emigration trailhead, I do wish I could be skiing instead. But I conjure up my inner Buddhist (or is it Yoda) and focus on where I am and what I am doing. The mountain biking is spectacular despite the crowds, and I am having a great time. Problem is, I feel like every weekend is on repeat and I have to say to myself, “This is the last time I’m going to ride my bike this year. I’ll be skiing by next week.” I’ve said that to myself three times over three weeks already, and here I am, screwing around on old jeep trails above the Natural History Museum and Red Butte Gardens.
I know winter will come. Alta opens on Friday, November 20th. I’ll be skiing this weekend even if it means I’m cruising groomers on manmade snow. But as I straddle my bike and look up at the Wasatch, whose peaks are dressed in a fresh coat of white, I try to temper my excitement. It will be a long season and when I make my first turn in deep powder, I’ll forget all about mountain bikes. But for this moment, I push my foot down on a pedal, feel momentum push me forward, and focus on riding my bike.