The Silverton Reset

Navigating the treacherous twists of Red Mountain Pass near Ouray feels like a daunting feat, evoking a sense of unease even in fair weather as I remain as far away from the edge as possible.

Yet, beyond this nerve-wracking stretch lies a vast, secluded mountain range. As I continue to follow the winding road upward, memories of past ski descents flood the mind as glimpses of new adventures transpire.

As I descend the final steep section of Red Mountain Pass, a singular zone commands my attention, its imposing presence stirring a mix of awe and trepidation. For over a decade, it has summoned me as a challenge waiting to be conquered.

Last season, after years of anticipation and speculation, the stars aligned. The culmination of years patiently waiting was rewarded with conditions exceeding all expectations, so much that a return for the “main event” from the summit the following morning was deemed necessary.

On that morning, my eyes widened with excitement as I looked down the aesthetic chute from the summit. Large rocks resembling mighty waves cresting the ocean’s edge obscured the chute’s entrance. Amidst the thrill, a sobering awareness of the enormity and inherent risks of descending such a formidable backcountry line lingered, even on a moderate to low avalanche danger day. It is one of the biggest backcountry lines I have ever skied, and my buddies were nice enough to let me descend first as I was the “out of towner” in the group. A testament to the camaraderie that exists here.

As I continue my descent down the pass, I find my attention divided between the road ahead and the majestic landscape unfurling around me. Even though I have driven this stretch numerous times, I always wonder how much further it goes before my destination. And then, almost as if a door swings open, it emerges.

In the rugged, unpretentious town of Silverton, nestled among the awe-inspiring San Juans at an altitude of 9,318 feet, there exists a sanctuary for the purists of skiing, a haven untouched by the glittering allure of commercialism. This is not a place for the faint-hearted seeking a leisurely vacation; it is a place where the mountains, with their raw, untainted beauty, call out to those who seek to earn their turns, challenging them with terrain that is unapologetically expert-only. It’s skiing at its purest: humbling, awe inspiring, and peaceful.

For over a decade, I have answered Silverton’s call, witnessing its subtle growth while it steadfastly retains its identity. Yet, it is not merely the thrill of conquering the daunting ski slopes that summons me back to Silverton year after year. It is the town itself, with its unique rooted culture that acts as a calling for those seeking to experience skiing at its purest, providing a much-needed reset and escape from the modern-day ski industry.

Silverton is a place where the old school spirit of skiing thrives. Here, the hustle to secure the perfect line before others is non-existent. There’s no waking up at 5 a.m. to spend four hours in a car waiting for canyon roads to open just to get a parking spot. There are no lift lines snaking out of the corral, even on the busiest day. There’s no Hilton or Ritz; no multi-million-dollar mansions. The town consists of a few small hotels, comprising around 160 rooms, alongside small to modestly sized homes, many lacking garages. It’s Silverton’s authenticity that creates its charm, with its main drag, Green Street, being the lone paved road in town. Here, phones lose their influence, surrendering to the might of the mountains, making radios your best bet for reaching friends outside of town itself.

The San Juan mountains are a testament to the power of nature. They are intimidatingly massive and have some of the most complex avalanche and snowpack conditions in the United States, creating challenges that demand respect and expertise from those daring to enter them. It’s not terrain you take lightly. I’ve been skiing these mountains every year for over a decade, and they are humbling on every occasion. It is a place where patience is a virtue, waiting for the stars to align to ski daydreamt lines, whether it’s days or years. I’m very selective with who I venture into the backcountry with, but even more so in Silverton. My partners are close, experienced friends who I entrust my life with, generally guides or local avalanche forecasters who recreate in the terrain day in and day out.

Just 10 minutes outside of town, Silverton Mountain is not your typical ski area. The terrain does not cater to the whims of beginners or intermediates; there are no green, blue (or black) groomed trails waiting to gently cradle you as you make your descent. It is all thrills and no frills with one double chairlift nestled amongst the San Juans. Guests are required to always carry avalanche equipment, and to be accompanied by a guide (most of the season) to access the ski area’s hike-to and heli-skiing terrain.

My first trip to Silverton was with a group of friends over a decade ago, all ski industry experts, to ski Silverton Mountain under the guidance of Jeremy Yanko, a veteran guide whose expertise was evident from the get-go. I knew we were in for a grueling test of not only our skiing ability, but of our endurance. Little did I know, the trip would end up being more than just a life-changing skiing experience; it was the dawn of friendships, a camaraderie born out of shared challenges and triumphs with similar like-minded individuals who have the utmost passion for our sport.

We had arrived on the heels of the “Gold Rush,” a three-day big mountain skiing competition, and Jeremy was immediately able to recognize our group’s competence. He presented us with the classic mountain dilemma: quality or quantity. We could do a moderately tough day of hiking, skiing six runs in good conditions, or do a grueling three-run day with an ascent up The Grande Couloir, near where the competition had just wrapped up and the best conditions still resided.

The Grande Couloir’s allure and elegance was too much to resist. After a grueling and steep trek with two separate rope assists, we arrived at the top of Billboard, the longest hike at Silverton Mountain from the top of the chair. Topping out at just over a dizzying 12,000 feet, we descended the vast zone of Hanging Valley towards the base of The Grande Couloir—(now) a heli-drop only zone.

As we ascended The Grande, we quickly realized Jeremy was a mountain goat in human form, easily setting the boot pack up the 1,800ft couloir in thigh-to-waist deep snow. After 2 ½ hours of relentless climbing above 10,000 feet, we arrived at the summit with legs trembling, out of breath, and blurred vision. Once mental clarity returned, the true grandeur of the couloir revealed itself.

From a distance, its proportions may appear modest, but it’s not until you’re fully immersed within its massive walls that you grasp the magnitude of its splendor – wide enough to accommodate fresh tracks for all eight of us.

As I exited the couloir’s pristine conditions, and entered the apron, fatigue began to set in, and I realized there was still a considerable distance to cover. In a bid to conserve energy for the remainder of the descent, I widened and lengthened my turns. However, the acceleration that accompanied this adjustment, even as the slope angle decreased, only exacerbated my weary legs as I navigated the remainder of the runout.

Exhausted after descending one of the most iconic lines at Silverton Mountain, we managed one more jaunt through the trees before the lift closed and returned to the base tent for a well-deserved celebratory drink. What I didn’t expect upon entering the tent was the bond I formed with a community of guides who welcomed me as one of them, raising glasses of beer with us in celebration of the day’s triumphs.

The friendly guides knew us as the individuals who tackled The Grande with Jeremy, and their warm reception marked the beginning of enduring friendships that have enriched my life with countless unforgettable mountain adventures, skiing lines I’ve looked at and dreamed of for years.

Jeremy, who has now transitioned from guiding to avalanche forecasting in the San Juans, has remained a close, valued friend. Through his guidance and patience, he has unveiled many of Silverton’s backcountry secrets with me and (sometimes) a few lucky friends of mine.

“If you’re friends with Loomans, you’re friends of mine. Com’on along.”

In the heart of Silverton lies a charm defined by its majestic peaks and the warmth of its locals. They’ve welcomed me over the years, bestowing upon me the privilege of insider knowledge and a sense of belonging that transcends mere residency. Such intimacy is increasingly elusive in today’s monopolized ski industry, dominated by behemoths who have created mega-passes.

I moved from Vail to Utah in search of authenticity, an escape from the commodification of Colorado’s slopes. Initially, Utah offered respite, a haven free from the grip of corporate giants, but soon, the tendrils of commercialization crept in, eroding the essence of local identity.

Before long, secret stashes were skied out and the local hangouts were populated by individuals we didn’t recognize. It was then that a friend’s migration to Silverton became a beacon of hope. With a spare room as my portal, I gained newfound access to the town’s secrets and its soul. Through him, I forged many more connections with the locals of Silverton’s culture—owners of quaint establishments, guardians of its spirit. These bonds, woven over time, have rendered Silverton not just a destination, but a place that feels like a second home and, in a way, eclipsed the “local” embrace of my hometown of Park City.

VIDEO: Nick Loomans' Silverton Highlights

Silverton is more than just a skiing destination; it is a community, a way of life that is fiercely protected and cherished by those lucky enough to be a part of it. It is a privilege to be intertwined with this town and community, a privilege I cherish every time I answer Silverton’s call.

It has become a home away from home, a sanctuary with friends who generously open their homes, providing shelter in spare rooms or cozy couches, sometimes for weeks at a time.

As the time comes to depart and return to Utah, a longing to stay tugs at my heart. The enduring allures make leaving Silverton a bittersweet endeavor. I am forever grateful to those who continue to show me the goods while kicking my ass in the process, reminding me the definition of “in-shape” in Silverton is a different kind of “in-shape.”

I have rediscovered the essence of what it means to be a local again, benefitting in the preferential treatment that comes with it, which sometimes feels like a struggle in my own hometown.

So, take my advice, if you become entwined with this town and one of your friends who lives in Silverton calls and says, “Hey bud, if you can get here, you’re going to want to be here,” figure out how to get there. Because I promise it’ll be worth it.