Reason #4,327 Why I Love This Town

If one were so inclined, one could drive from my office to the base of Aspen Highlands, ride two lifts, hike 850 vertical feet to the top of Highlands Bowl at 12,300 feet, ski down to the car and be back at work in a 1 hour and 15 minute round trip.

Now the way I look at it, that's a borderline-egregious lunch in most offices. Two hours? Definitely over the top. One hour? Standard. But an hour and a quarter falls neatly in that beloved gray area, so on Tuesday I thought I'd throw caution to the wind and take advantage of the nearby mountains.

Once off the lifts, I paused to affix skins to my skis for the climb up the ridge. Rare to this time of year, there were only two other guys preparing to do the same. This may have had something to do with the brutal winds that were scouring the exposed ridge line (see picture above. that's not a cloud, that's snow being transported off the ridge). These two guys could have been anyone: overzealous Texans, Argentinean seasonal employees, local ski bums...but today I got lucky. On this day, I would be climbing and skiing with two of my heroes.

Meet Ted Mahon and Neil Biedleman, two seemingly average guys that have done some seriously badass things. Both have stood atop Everest, but their list of accomplishments goes well beyond the world's tallest peak.

Mahon recently became only the third man to ski all 54 of Colorado's 14,000 summits, making several descents along the way that have now become part of ski-mountaineering lore. (First to accomplish the feat was Lou Dawon, who I also was fortunate to share some turns with, chronicled here) To put it in perspective, Mahon's descent of the Landry Line on Pyramid Peak (shown below) was what's called a no-fall line: you fall, you die.

Mahon is also an accomplished trail-runner, having raced in several of my favorite races (Pikes Peak Ascent) and several I've only dreamed of (Leadville 100).

As impressive as these accomplishments are, they pale in comparison to what Neal Biedelman pulled off in May 1996. For those of you who have read Into Thin Air by John Krakauer, or the book that served as a response to Krakauer's take, The Climb by Anatoli Bourkreev, you may recognize Biedleman's name. He was serving as a guide in the spring of 1996 when a vicious storm blew in during their descent from the summit, leaving 10 people, including 3 guides, dead.

What makes Biedleman a hero is not his mere presence on the mountain that day, but in reading the two books written about the incident -- each with vastly different viewpoints on what went wrong and who was to blame -- he is the only person universally lauded as a hero. And this from a man who was climbing Everest for the first time.

I won't inundate you with details since I highly recommend you read both books, but Neil was responsible for saving several lives during the storm; this is not in dispute. One of the rescues literally involved strapping a lifeless man to his back and descending the mountain; now that's a mid 80's Van Damme movie level of badassedness.

For me, having the opportunity to ski with these two was akin to showing up at your local public course on a quiet morning to find you've been paired with Tiger Woods. Now, that may seem silly to you, but what do you know? You still wet the bed on occasion. That's right; I know.

On the climb, I did my best to not be overbearing and annoying, but I asked some questions I've long wanted to. Both guys were gracious in dealing with me, particularly when their oxygen would have been better left conserved while hammering uphill at 12,000 feet.

That's the funny thing about people: wind up in the company of some good ones, and even when the air is thin, your legs are burning, and a relentless wind whips your face, you'll find you still don't want the conversation to end.

The author enjoying a rare mid-week descent of Highland Bowl.