People talk about "The Real Las Vegas", "The Real Paris", "The Real Deal." Locals are among the elite who know how to strip the stereotypes and show you how it truly is. So, I'm going to tell you about the "real Colorado." Let's get rid of the stereotypes first: blue skies, bleached powder mountains, and aspens. You can get those on a postcard. Now, get in your SUV and let's drive to Crested Butte.

Built on an old mining town, Crested Butte is what quad-shot espresso is to sugar-free vanilla soy latte with whip cream. Unlike its ritzy neighbor to the north, CB is where people make the mountains their life. Rips in jackets patched with duct tape, bandaged arms, irreverant bumper stickers, racoon goggle tans, greasy hair, untrimmed beards -- these aren't tourists, these are powder addicts, drawn to the resort that claims "the most lift-accessible extreme terrain in North America."

Josh, Angie, Barb and I took the winding drive from Aspen south to Mount Crested Butte. Since the pass was closed, we were forced to drive the long way, looping, winding, diving and dipping. I was more worried about Barb losing her BBQ sandwich than I was falling off the edge of the cliff-side road. None of us snacked on the leftover cookies. At 10PM, five hours later, we pulled into the Grand Lodge Crested Butte. Worn out from a day of hard skiing at Snowmass, we dragged our bags to our rooms and caved into bed.

The next morning, as eager as we were to explore the mountain on skis, we were not excited about getting out of bed. We took our time and gently oiled our muscles back into action. Breakfast consisted of pancakes the size of manhole covers from The Avalanche, a garish A-frame at the base of the Red Lady Express lift. Other would-be skiers, washed the sleep from their eyes with heavy doses of black coffee and equally large portions.

And then, the day began. We strapped on our skis and took the hill. Josh and Angie split off in search of those 80-foot cliffs. Crested Butte, even from afar, looks challenging. Barb and I weren't sure if we would even see these two ever again as we watched them disappear over the ridge on the lift. We caught a different lift and met some Missourians (?? ... people from Missouri) who looked as if they had been skiing all week. They were giddy with excitement and began to point out where we should head and what runs had the best powder. "Definitely head over to the Paradise Lift," they said. "Friendly blue runs with nice degrees."

And they were right! Everything from the waist up was extremely happy. The blue sky came out and I stripped layers (even to the point of skiing shirtless -- a true Colorado experience). Almost everything below the waist, however, was screaming in agony. My thighs burned. My quads ached. My calves quivered. We would do a run, exhilarating, but by the end I didn't know if I could do another. "Ok, just one more," became the operational phrase of the day. One hour of delightful torture turned into four, and by 1PM we were spent.

We headed down the mountain, washed up at the hotel and went back to The Avalanche, not sure how many Long Island ice teas it would take before Josh and Angie showed up. But as far as our legs were concerned, they could take as long as they wanted.

As long as the pizza didn't get too cold.

For more pictures from the trip, see our photo gallery.