The almighty Aspen Mountain, circa 1965. VIEW THE SLIDESHOW »

Ajax (or, as the trail maps and resort honchos call it, “Aspen Mountain”) is the rarest of ski mountains. It has no beginner runs whatsoever. Zip, zero, nada. Ever skied another mountain with no green on the trail map? I’ve skied 72 different resorts in North America, and Ajax is the only one without speed-killing flats or SPORES (Spastic Punters On Rental Equipment).

While there are White Mountains and Poconos with history, the steep crucible of Ajax forges a more vibrant, intense culture. Part of that comes from history. Aspen Mountain resort was officially opened in 1946. Its steeps, bumps, and incredible views have been famous for decades. Ajax erupts out of the ground near the Little Nell and doesn’t stop till it’s 3,267 feet above the heart of downtown Aspen.

In the postwar years, Ajax was the flame to famous ski moths like Ed and Dolores LaChapelle. Ed was a legendary avalanche scientist and Dolores an author. Her book, Deep Powder Snow: Forty Years of Ecstatic Skiing, Avalanches, and Earth Wisdom, is not only a cult book for powder skiers, it’s the only cult book for powder skiers. Dolores writes of living in Aspen and skiing Ajax with veterans of the 10th Mountain Division: “Skiing was what we were there for, and that was our life. All else came second in those first years—work, the daily hassles of getting along, sex, and material possessions except for skis. Practically, what this meant was that it was much easier to live together. There were no long discussions over inner feelings; we just shared the work and shared the bills and skied. If you didn’t fulfill your share, you were dropped because any time or money wasted meant that much less skiing.”

The LaChapelles came to Ajax for the fluff and the face shots. Others came for speed. In 1947, ski pioneer Dick Durrance was hired to run the Aspen Ski Corporation. Promoting the fact that Chairlift 1 was, at the time, the longest chairlift in the world, Durrance got the 1950 FIS Championships Race to come to Aspen—an amazing coup, as this was the first time a European ski championship was held in the United States. The racers craved the way Ajax’s fall lines virtually vacuumed them down the mountain. From Billy Kidd’s slalom World Cup victory (1968) to Ingemar Stenmark’s winning his 86th and final World Cup race on Aspen Mountain (1989) to today, the skin-suited and heavily waxed have made the pilgrimage to Ajax. Locals still challenge themselves and each other by attacking every slope with all the energy they have. Watch them plummet down Walsh’s, Bell Mountain, the Dumps, and the frightening hairpinned World Cup downhill course. The turns may be awesome at Ajax, yet some customers simply point ’em.

I’ve been skiing Ajax since 1985. One time I wrenched my spine on the moguls of Super 8. I thought I’d be bedridden for a week. But that night, my sister and brother-in-law convinced me to go to an Aspen nightclub. I began dancing with the babes of Aspen (Aspen attracts the prettiest snow bunnies in America—always has and always will). Miraculously, dancing loosened the mogultweaked muscles and the spasms went away. (Hurting oneself on Ajax bumps and then healing in a nightclub is so Aspen.)

Another hallmark is irreverence. To ski Ajax is to see signatures in yellow snow. Jokes on the lift line message boards. And, inevitably, the violation of trail signs to Niagara. I don’t know who does it, but the left pillar of the letter “N” perpetually gets wiped out, leading to the run’s unofficial name, “Viagara.”

Still, there’s a surprising spirituality to Aspen. You’ll see it manifested atop Ajax’s righteous summit, where Tibetan prayer flags stream out from the patrol shack. To see these “wind horses” fan blessings out to the Rockies’ crystalline peaks is to sense the patrollers’ sincere gratitude for the nature that surrounds them. In the trees of Ajax, like those spilling off International Run, the snowpack is raw and ephemeral—shaped and constantly reshaped by unique blends of temperature, wind, and skier activity. Descents at Ajax are just like the snowflakes that blanket it so heavily: No two are exactly alike.

Sprinkled throughout the glades of Ajax stand many intricate shrines. Before the recent enclaves for Snoopy, golf, and the New York Yankees, there were rules for the shrines: The shrine shall venerate a musician and said musician must be dead. Elvis, of course, has one. So does Marilyn Monroe (who, I guess, got musician credit because she warbled “Happy Birthday” to JFK).

The Jerry Garcia shrine, by far the easiest to find, hides behind a scant phalanx of trees near Ruthie’s Run. A less assured resort would probably tear down the shrine, citing family issues, liability problems, and assorted half-truths. At Ajax, patrollers freely give directions to it, never mind its laminated honorariums to head trips and its supply of rolling papers and other paraphernalia.

My friend Brett and I recently skied a tightly forested 40-degree shot to the sanctuary dedicated to Jimi Hendrix. Tucked into the mouth of a bricked-up mine, Jimi’s place is so secluded that nearby tourists don’t even notice its prayer flags and the old K2s sacrificed in homage.

Thanks to blind luck, Brett and I even found a shrine that few Aspenites know exist: Wilhelm Richard Wagner’s. A German composer best known for “Ride of the Valkyries” (the classic that accompanied the helicopter invasion in Apocalypse Now), Wagner struck us as an awfully esoteric honoree. Perhaps Wagner mementos suited the slopes of Ajax, given Aspen’s artsy, highly educated culture. Still, Wagner died in 1883. His shrine lacked the photo adornments of the others, and it left visitors wondering how to pay tribute. There was such a pervasive 19th-century vibe to the place, we felt we should smoke opium and drink absinthe.

When you’re in the shrines of dead entertainers, think of them also as temples to Ajax’s history and culture. Feel free to commune with the spirits of the dead, Mother Nature, or both. Just don’t commune with your office: These are sanctuaries, and cell phones aren’t allowed.

BY ROB STORY
PHOTOGRAPHS BY TONY GAUBA