36 Hours in Breckenridge or How to make to most of a ski trip by yourself

This is not the story of a glamorous, big budget ski trip.
 
There were no helicopters involved. No film crew tagging along. No baller chalets.
 
It’s a story about me, my snowboard, and an opportunity I had to check out a new ski resort town for a mere 36 hours.
 
When I agreed to attend a conference in Denver in early March, it crossed my mind that there was some mighty good skiing close to Denver. After several hours spent Googling, analyzing logistics, and touching base with my limited network of Colorado contacts, I was able to come up with one feasible itinerary that met my time and budget constraints.
 
Me. Thirty-six hours. Breckenridge.

 
I had my hesitations. Was a day of snowboarding – solo, no less – worth the hassle of dragging my board across the border, not to mention the necessary expenses of shuttles, condos rentals, and a day pass on the mountain?
 
Yes, I decided. It was worth it.
 
And so I found myself dragging my overstuffed snowboard bag (conveniently deposited in the Denver airport’s designated ski bag carousel – brilliant) and catching the late night shuttle up to Breck.
 
After a mild (understatement of the year) winter in Whistler, it felt good to feel the cold bite of the Colorado Rockies. In the days leading up to my visit, I'd checked Breck’s conditions like a hawk, heart fluttering every time their Facebook page posted a  “9 inches last night!” update. Finally, I was here. Winter.
 
I lost feeling in my fingers on the short but freezing walk from the bus stop to my rented condo at the River Mountain Lodge. I contemplated heading out to socialize, but after a long day of travel, the bed was too enticing to leave behind.
 

I woke up to sunny skies and a snow covered mountain. Hallelujah! First order of business: a hearty breakfast to fuel my day of adventure. I headed to Amazing Grace, a breakfast spot I’d heard a lot about. With its little rooms and mismatched chairs, it looked more like a cozy house than a restaurant. I went the boring-but-healthy-and-filling route and ordered the oatmeal with blueberries, which did just the trick.
 
Next stop, the ticket booth, where I died a little as I shelled out $150 (USD, no less) on a single day pass. Word to the wise: apparently, you can save $20 or so if you buy your pass well in advance online. Then, I was ready to shred.

Here’s the thing: I had scanned the mountain map, but I really didn’t have any clue what I was doing. I was banking on meeting a friendly local who would be happy to show me the ropes, leading me to the best pow stashes on the mountain.
 
As I boarded the gondola, I immediately started interviewing my fellow riders. They were a mixed clan, half from Chicago, half from San Diego. They’d never been to Breckenridge before and were just learning how to snowboard. In other words, they were not the guides I was looking for.

 
So I set off on my own, determined to work my way across Peaks 10 through 6 and hoping to meet my local-in-shining-armor somewhere along the way. I did meet an awesome local on my very first lift ride up: he was an old man who’d lived in the area since the ‘70s. He half bragged, half complained about how much things had changed. The chair we were on, for instance: “It’s an 8-seater. It’s too big. It always stops. People always fall off of it.” Old Man Breck had me in stiches the whole ride up, but we parted ways at the top.

 
It’s a curious thing, exploring a mountain that’s so different from what you’re used to. Breck blue runs are like Whistler green runs, and their blacks are like our blues. Whistler’s double blacks are steep cliffy runs or big bowls; most of Brecks’ are moguls. Lots and lots of moguls. I spent the day flitting in and out of the trees, squeezing in some hit laps, and moguling my way down the mountain.
 
And then I headed to Peak 6.
 
Until now, chairlift conversation had been hit or miss. I talked to a lot of old timey locals and some rich retirees with second homes in the mountains. I’d also had my fair share of chairs all to myself. But something different happened on a chair called Kensho.
 
I loaded on to the lift with two other singles. The wind was picking up at this point, and we spent the vast majority of the ride in silence, hoods up and jackets zipped all the way up. As we neared the top, one guy mentioned a sweet run he’d had off of Peak 10. He pointed the way to me, and off I went.

 
It was glorious. There were no face shots, to be sure, but getting fresh tracks through an empty bowl felt incredible after a season of icy groomers. I lapped Peak 10 a few times until my grumbling stomach and wind-chapped face signaled that it was time to wrap up the day.
 
The aptly named 4 O’Clock run brought me straight to my condo. Next mission: a delicious lunch/dinner at Mi Casa, a Mexican restaurant that came highly recommended to me by, well, the internet. I ordered whatever margarita was on special and settled in with the latest Vanity Fair (tip #1 of being an awkward solo diner: bring reading material).

My bearded server would not have been out of place in Whistler, although there he would’ve likely been from Australia, not Iowa. We chatted on and off as I sipped the best margarita of my life and ate some delectable carnitas. By the time the bill was paid, he’d invited me to join some of the restaurant staff to celebrate one of the chef’s dinner that night. “Huzzah!” I thought, “I’ve finally found my Breck insider connection!” I left him with my email (texting was off the plate – roaming charges, natch) and set out to explore Main Street.
 

Main Street makes Whistler’s Village seem very … constructed. It’s a mishmash of old Western style buildings, adorable boutiques, and one off restaurants and bars, and it’s the perfect place to spend an afternoon wandering around.
 
Evening hit and I wandered back to my condo. Still full on carnitas, I snacked on some fudge and cheap champagne that I’d picked up earlier on Main Street. Keeping an eye on my email, I felt myself grow sleepy (from the day on the mountain or the champagne, I’m not sure). It dawned on me that restaurant staff parties likely wouldn’t start until after dinner service had completed (duh). Somewhere around 11 p.m., I succumbed to sleep.
 
I woke to two emails from my Brecken buddy outlining the party plans. I’d officially blown it. But at least I was well rested?
 
I kicked off my lazy morning with breakfast at the buzzing Daylight Donuts. I definitely thought this was a quaint Breckenridge breakfast hotspot, but I later found out that it’s actually a chain in the States. Nonetheless, I noshed on an acceptably average eggs-toast-hash-browns.

 
I killed a few hours walking around beyond Main Street, then picked a chocolate croissant from La Francaise (it was dynamite) and headed to my shuttle. There was only one other passenger at the Breck Station: a guy from North Carolina who’d just wrapped up what appeared to be the ski holiday of a lifetime. “I want to be up there!” he moaned as we drove off, mountains framed perfectly under a bluebird sky. I felt his pain, wishing I’d had more than 36 hours to explore this awesome playground.
 
Moral of the story: fear not traveling alone, and never pass up the opportunity to ski somewhere new.