I Love Skiing With People. Here’s Why a Solo Day on the Mountain Surprised Me.
The storm had arrived. Wind whipped through the trees, which, under the weight of new snow, groaned and creaked. The visibility had fallen to a football field or so. Chairlifts, lodges, and skiers danced at the edge of the gathering emptiness. It was the final chapter of a family trip, and as the afternoon approached, the rest of the group decided to head back to the lodge. I, however, wanted to keep skiing for a little longer—the conditions were just starting to get good, after all.
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It had been a while since I’d struck out on my own. Solo skiing was, in most cases, something I endured rather than pursued. In Montana, where I once lived, I’d often drive up to the mountain alone, banging out a few runs. But without the chairlift chatter and shared stoke, boredom usually struck. Every run, I hoped to bump into somebody so I’d have some company.
After I left my family to hunt for fresh snow, that familiar sensation came over me. I sat on a cold chair as it trundled through space, wishing that it was easier to twiddle my thumbs in mittens. I had no distractions, and daily worries swirled. It was a little uncomfortable. Yet, once I’d taken a lap, I began to appreciate the solitude. I skied. I stared ahead, vacantly, as the lift cable ground overhead. My mind hollowed. I did it again. A glorious and self-indulgent rhythm set in.
Of course, I hadn’t discovered a newfound dislike for the alternative. Only the day before, I was reminded why I enjoy skiing with others so much. Separating from the group, my brother and I had hopped on one of our favorite lifts. At the top of the peak, we set out to do what he had started to call “hounding”—that is, searching for a few morsels of fresh snow. The mission wasn’t successful, at least for most of the run.
We slid into a wide, icy chute and skittered over a surface that resembled frozen gravel. But at the bottom of the slope, we found smoothness, making a few neat figure eights before heading back to the lift. My brain lit up. Skiing, an unflinching link in our relationship, remained. I doubt we’d be enemies without it, but the mountains have certainly made us closer.
Most of all, beloved ski partners bring the energy. But in greater numbers, they can also create group dynamics, for better and worse. I didn't have to navigate them as I lapped amid the storm. That low-angle spot in the trees? I could venture there without a debate. Feeling like changing the pace? That was allowed, too. I recalled all the times I not-so-eagerly followed friends down hair-raising lines to preserve my ego. A little nudge is welcome—that’s how you improve. In the mood that struck me, though, I preferred noodling around without a whiff of social pressure.
At the same time, I didn’t avoid conversation. Once, a woman wearing a bright yellow jacket joined me on the lift. She asked me how my day was going, and later revealed that she was a resort host. “What does the job involve?” I wondered. “This, basically,” she said, referring to our chat, a pleasant interaction between two total strangers that I could’ve missed. As we neared the upper terminal, we told each other to have a good run and went our separate ways. Still, in some corner of my memory reserved for the characters I’ve met by happenstance, I knew she’d stick around.
Pushing off into the blizzard, I opted for a final lap and settled on Chair 6, which accesses one of Crystal Mountain’s peaks. It crawled lazily upwards, its chairs swinging softly in the haze. On the ridge, I could see only a few other skiers happily turning down the bowl—it was Tuesday, and the midweek crowds were still at bay. I chose a traverse that, I hoped, would drop me on top of a run I’d eyed earlier. The calculation was right. Below, an untouched powder field beckoned. I tipped over the edge, bounding from turn to turn, letting out little hoots along the way.
This was, I realized, my day and nobody else’s—a rarity on and off the slopes. I am, like most of us most of the time, a relational creature. I exist, mainly, because of how other people see me: a partner, a brother, a friend, a son, an employee. These labels, as they should, come with expectations, from emails to dirty dishes. For the moment, I found delight in casting them off, adhering exclusively to another label I've known my whole life: skier. Then, I aimed my planks back towards the base, where my family waited.
The color came back to my wind-whipped cheeks in the lodge. Everyone was there, smiling, chatting, and laughing. I couldn’t wait to tell them about how much better the snow had gotten. I also quietly anticipated the next time I could vanish among the mountains, if only for an hour, becoming a thoughtless, untethered blur, not unlike the flakes, the trees, and the rocks zipping past me.