Picture this: I’m sitting in the garage, door cracked open just enough for the cold air to sneak in, staring at skis that have been waxed so many times I’m pretty sure they’re shinier than my wife’s car. The bench is covered with the usual chaos: a half-gone bar of wax, scrapings from the previous time, a file to sharpen edges, and my waxing iron with its blinking L.E.D. heartbeat trying to reassure me everything will be okay. It’s not helping.
If you’re reading this, you probably know the feeling I’m explaining. That low, constant hum under your ribs when you check the forecast for the tenth time before coffee and it still says “partly sunny, highs in the 50s.” You click over to the webcams anyway, because hope is stubborn. Your local mountain resort stares back at you: upper mountain closed, mid-mountain a patchwork of man-made ribbons that look like someone tried to frost a cake with a garden hose. The lifties are probably standing around somewhere in board shorts wondering if they accidentally got hired for summer camp instead.
Meanwhile, the group chat (oh how I hate group chats!) is a support group nobody asked to join. Someone drops a screenshot of the latest model run that teases a storm, then someone else replies with the updated forecast six hours later that shoves the whole system into the Gulf of Alaska, or worse yet – South to Las Vegas (yes, they’re already skiing there too!). I’ve seen the same three GIFs more times that I care to admit at this point: the tumbleweed crossing an empty groomer, the skeleton waiting at a bus stop labeled “Western Snowfall,” and that one of a dog sitting in a burning room saying “this is fine. We’re all fine. Totally fine.”
It’s strange how personal it feels when the snow doesn’t come. Like the mountains forgot we exist. I catch myself bargaining with weather patterns the way people bargain with the universe when a flight’s delayed. Come on, just a little shift, ten millibars, that’s all I’m asking. I’ll recycle more. I’ll stop tailgating Prius’s that are doing 41 in the fast lane. Anything!
And then there’s the East (I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with and! – but it works here). Sweet, smug, snow-covered Jay Peak up in Vermont decided last week was the perfect time to drop a video of them absolutely swimming in early-season powder. You’ve probably seen it; the one where the guy drops into the glades and the snow is so deep his poles disappear, then he whoops so loud you can hear it over whatever playlist you had on. Forty-eight hours later it had three million views and half the West collectively threw their phones across the room. I watched it on mute the third time because the sound of someone else’s joy was starting to feel like a personal attack.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. I am. Somewhere deep down under the layers of envy and mild rage, I’m genuinely thrilled that someone is getting it. But also… dude, read the room. 😊
Here in the West we’re left refreshing OpenSnow like it’s a slot machine that’s one cherry away from paying out. Parts of Utah and Colorado are actually supposed to see something decent this week; nothing that’ll fix the season, but enough to maybe open a few more runs and give the snowmakers a fighting chance. I’ve already bookmarked the resorts that might spin a chair and set calendar reminders like I’m stalking concert tickets. If Monarch or Loveland fires up the triple and posts a photo of actual white stuff, I may drive through the night without hesitation or shame.
Until then, we do what we always do when winter ghosts us: we train!
I’ve been running the foothills, going to the gym to pretend I love leg day. My mountain bike is getting more mileage than usual. I run beacon drills in the park using plastic flower pots to hide a beacon. One lady asked if I was filming a movie. I told her yes, it’s called “Still waiting”
If all of this is sounding familiar to you, and this snow drought has you climbing the walls, here’s one of the best ways to turn the frustration into something useful: book an avalanche course right now. Course enrollment for level 1, level 2, and rescue classes always explodes the moment the first real storm hits. It’s like everyone realizes they meant to refresh their rescue skills “this season” – spots disappear overnight, and you’re left hoping for a last-minute cancellation. Don’t be that person. Many course providers, whether us, or anywhere else still have openings you can check out in between your doom-scrolling of webcams. When the storm cycle finally arrives, you’ll be the one who’s not playing catch-up.
There is a quiet rhythm to these dry spells if you let yourself settle into it. The gym gets crowded with familiar faces you only ever see when the snowpack fails us. The coffee shop conversations shift from “where’d you ski?” to “how many lunges is too many lunges?” We trade beta on resorts that might open first, argue over which model has been less wrong this month, and collectively hold our breath every time the long-range update reloads.
I keep thinking about the seasons when it came late but then never stopped. The year I swear we were skiing grass in December and were still finding stashes in June. The way the mountains always seems to know exactly how much patience you have left and then gives you one inch more than you thought you could stand waiting for. That’s the hope I suspect many of us are clinging to right now. It feels like this is just the long inhale before the exhale that buries us.
Because when it finally comes; and it almost always does, none of this will matter. The group chat will explode with all-caps messages and exclamation points that break the keyboard. Someone will claim first chair. Someone else will call in sick to work with a suspiciously stuffy voice. We’ll click in and start up the skin track. Once ready to drop, those first few turns will feel worth it. The ache, the memes, the endless refresh button: erased by the simple, perfect sound of snow under skis finally doing what it’s supposed to do.
Until then, we wait. Not gracefully, not patiently, but together. We keep the edges sharp and the day-dreams in check. We remind each other that the mountain has never once checked our calendar or cared about our timelines. It shows up when it’s ready, and when it does, it doesn’t apologize for being late. It just opens the sky and lets us have everything we’ve been carrying around for weeks.
So keep the beacon batteries fresh. Keep the pack half-packed by the door like it’s a kid waiting for the school bus. Keep laughing at the tumbleweed GIF because it’s better than the alternative. Keep one eye on Colorado and Utah this week and the other on the long-range because somewhere out there in the Pacific there’s a storm with our name on it.
The snow knows where we live. It’s just taking the scenic route.
Your turns are still coming. They’re just running on mountain time, same as always.
See you out there – whenever mother nature finally remembers we don’t want post cards anymore.
Written By Caleb Burns