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Aspen Mountain

I put on some Quaker oats, then grope my way to the bathroom where I tentatively begin the morning’s first meditation. It is one that will require all the awareness I can muster up at this early hour: a meditation done with open eyes and a steady hand. It begins with me navigating a very sharp device across my face, better known as a man’s razor. Stroke by stroke, I effectively remove each new layer of stubble that has mysteriously appeared overnight. The sleepy-eyed reflection looking back at me in the mirror seems to be saying: “You must be crazy. Are you really doing this? Don’t you realize it is minus 18 degrees outside?” I feel my warm, cozy bed pulling me like a magnet. It could be worse I tell myself. It could be an hour earlier with me on a bicycle pedaling to Dynamic Meditation. Looked at from any angle this morning, it is early. Too early! The mind is the mind is the mind.

Freshly shaved and in my thermals, I tuck into a bowl of steaming-hot oats. Looking out from the window, I watch the first rays of sun just catching the top of Aspen Mountain. The snow cats have been up there most of the night grooming the slopes, leaving them with a silky-smooth finish called “corduroy”. If I’m lucky, another few inches of snow will have fallen since. Intuition is telling me this is going to be a very special day.

I go to kiss my girlfriend goodbye and she mumbles something like, “You must be nuts!” then quickly disappears back under the covers with our family of stuffed bears. Opening the door to the apartment, I am greeted by the coldest blast of air I have ever felt in my life. Good morning, Mother Nature! Humbled, I find myself in an unusual position: in absolute agreement with my girlfriend. She’s right. I must be crazy!

I walk to the base of the mountain which is only four short blocks from my house. The air is so cold I can feel the hairs freezing in my nose. The ski lift opens in ten minutes. I decide to sharpen-up my nervous system with a double espresso in my favorite cafe. Glancing through the local paper, I read where ski-related deaths are up this year, on-track to set a record in Colorado. They happen mostly from people hitting trees, or disappearing in deep snow and avalanches. The Rocky Mountains can be a dangerous, an unforgiving place to the unaware. “I can’t be too careful this morning,” I think to myself finishing-off my coffee.

I board the gondola and prepare for the ride up. Aspen, my home since two years, sits at 7910 feet elevation. When I reach the summit in twenty-minutes, I will be standing over 12,000 feet, literally on top of the world. These mountains are BIG. This morning, the views on the way up are nothing short of spectacular. The sky is incredibly clear. Perhaps it is the reflection of light off the snow that makes it so blue.

To the south, I have an awesome view of Independence Pass. It is closed about eight months of the year due to snow and landslides. Two years ago while on tour, we drove over it with the band. While taking a break to stretch our legs, Simant, our keyboard player, had his picture taken by a local photographer. The following day, it made the front page of the Aspen Times with the caption: ‘Mountain Meditation with Swami Anand Simant, Japanese musician living in India’. Later, when I went to the newspaper office to get some copies, they were surprised how many people had been calling in to order the photo. Simant, it seemed, had become a local legend overnight. I like to think of him as Osho’s Ambassador to Aspen.

The gondola has arrived at the top. People are putting on their skis. We are few this chilly morning. I think most opted for a cozier, and arguably saner, option and stayed in bed. My little packs of chemical hand-warmers have kicked in, but they are barely competing with the sub-zero temperatures. My bindings click, locking me onto the long pieces of hi-tech planking soon to be carrying me down the mountain at speeds up to 35 miles per hour. Note: racing skiers in the recent Salt Lake Olympics traveled at speeds up to 90 miles per hour. I prefer enjoying this kind of speed watching it on TV. In ski jargon, I am known as a “cruiser”.

Every step along the way this morning needs absolute attention. I check my boot buckles for tightness. In this sport, a moment’s unawareness can literally mean the difference between life and death. I pause to look at the range of jagged peaks to the west of me. They are covered in a pure white blanket of snow, shadowing what is known as the Conundrum Valley. It is a wilderness area famous for its natural hot springs at 11,000 feet. In this moment, the beauty of the valley and its surrounding peaks is spectacular, a real conundrum i.e. too beautiful to comprehend with the mind.

I take a deep breath of the cold, thin air. I feel a big ‘yes’ welling up inside me. Another deep breath. I am taking it all in – the beauty, the nature, the splendor. The words to a song suddenly come to mind. There is so much magnificence… I am ready now. With a few kick-outs and a pole push, I am on my way. There is nobody on the trail. I laugh to myself at the trail’s name: ‘Bellissimo’.

A unique combination of weather conditions in these high mountains produces a kind of snow extremely soft and light called “champagne powder”. Just as I was hoping, there are a few fresh inches on top of the immaculately groomed slopes. The rhythm of my turns starts to create in me a natural intoxication. I am making “first tracks”. It is a skier’s dream. Ecstasy.

I glide down the rolling slopes, the sharp edges of my skies cutting perfect arcs in the new snow. There is silence all around. The landscape looks spectacular with the morning sunlight through the trees. My face is numb, my eyes watery, from the wind-chill factor. I round a corner and a breath-taking view opens up before me: the entire Sawatch Range to the east, peak after peak over 14,000 feet, and the vast Western Slope to the north. They don’t call this the High Country for nothing. Breathing, opening, letting it all in. So much magnificence. Those words again!

4:00pm. Apres ski. I am once again in my favorite cafe, warming-up my weary bones with a cup of hot chocolate. I like to think it is the long day of skiing causing every one of my muscles to ache, not my forty-nine years of age! It is a kind of tiredness that feels really good.

My mind wanders back to those magical moments earlier in the day: on top of the world, breathing, opening, letting go, nature filling me up, all that magnificence. I take another sip and close my eyes. It is all still there: those first tracks, the sound of my edges carving graceful turns, the sunshine, and the endless, crystal clear views, the azure blue sky, the pristine silence. Maybe I am not that tired after all. I think I am just drunk. Drunk on Life. Waves are coming in, waves are coming in. . . .