I write this from a Vermont mountainside condo. The steep slopes, which should be covered in lovely white snow and peppered with skiers, are strips of brown grass. A chilly rain and dense cloud cover set a gloomy mood. The chair lifts are stationery, the parking lot nearly vacant. It’s a resort ghost town in a historically desirable ski weekend.
Such is the plight of skier life. Last winter, some of the country’s baddest-ass skiing was in the Northeast. We got pleasantly pounded with fresh powder, storm after storm, while the West suffered a painfully dry winter. As luck would have it, last year I had a strong realization that I wanted to get back into skiing, after years of going once or twice a season and renting gear. I decided that skiing was important as a family activity, and we invested accordingly.