A MOUNTAIN IN NEW MEXICO

Taos, New Mexico, was a ski-insider secret for decades—until a multimillion-dollar investor came along. Michael Paterniti goes back to the valley to find out what has changed, and what will forever stay the same.

- Photographs by Jen Judge

SEVERAL DECADES AGO I was living with my future wife in Santa Fe, working as an editor at a magazine about outdoor sports. I would find myself sitting at my desk, cutting words and moving sentences, and entertaining the same daydream about seven times a day. In my mind I would trace the route north from Santa Fe as Sara and I drove up through high-desert scrub and the towns of Pojoaque, Espanola, and Velarde. I’d follow its wriggling path through the gorge of the Rio Grande until we shot out onto the mesa, the distant Sangre de Cristo Mountains lit tangerine by the ever-burning Southwestern sun.

Somewhere among those peaks was the place I dreamed of: Taos Ski Valley. The origin story has it that in 1953 Ernie Blake, a Swiss-German transplant, flew in a little four-seater over northern New Mexico, spied the epic possibility in a steep, north-facing slope, then set to work, clearing and constructing his idea of a perfect ski mountain. About 20 miles northeast of the town of Taos, pressed up against sacred Pueblo lands, it would combine an old-world European ski resort with the New Mexican melting pot.

On weekends, my daydreams became reality. Our car loaded with skis, Sara and I would start driving before dawn. We were young and not exactly flush, spending what we had on gas and lift tickets ($38 in the mid 90s). She was the real skier; I could tumble down behind her. We loved the hippie spirit of Taos, the collection of characters in cowboy hats, jester hats, and hand-knit hats (these were the days before ski helmets were really a thing) lining up in an ecstatic parade as the lifts opened.