Photo Essay

3:10 to Durango

The official way to hail a train is to cross your arms back and forth over your knees–a move more likely to be found at a middle school dance than a wilderness stop. Hearing the whistle of the train and praying they would A) stop and B) have space, we danced. And jumped. And screamed. We crossed our arms over our legs so fast we almost started flying home. The spectacle was enough to not only make the train stop, but garner the attention of every single passenger aboard the scenic Narrow Gauge Silverton-Durango line. More than a hundred heads with slacked jaws hung out the open-air cabins; we were likely the most interesting wildlife encounter they’d see the entire day.

Words and Photos Matthew Tufts

“All gas, no brakes, am I right?”

I chuckled at the comment. No one has ever accused me of skiing fast. Uphill, maybe. But I’m far from a freeride charger, as my brakeless gram-counting minimal bindings showed.

I’ve done a lot of ridiculous things on skis. Well, perhaps I ought to say with skis. Often, they’re on my back—catching every branch, ledge and bush like a giraffe attempting an army crawl. Far from snow, but close enough to seem plausible, carried through bush, desert, talus and rivers.

But this was one of the more ridiculous things I ever did to my skis. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming, particularly at quarter to five in the morning. I pressed the lever again, shooting low grade petrol (premium is for Summit County skiers, we joked) onto my ski bases—and all over the pavement. Isaiah Branch-Boyle, a Silverton, CO, local, laughed as I wiped away resin-like climbing skin residue with a paper towel.

3:10 to Durango

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