Powder Days Are Great, but I'd Rather Ski in the Spring

The line seemed infinite, stretching past buildings, storefronts, and parked cars.

Somewhere, near its front, stood a chairlift that all of us skiers desperately wanted to ride, although I couldn’t see it yet, thanks to the fellow lemmings surrounding me. We’d all looked at the forecast the previous night and foolishly decided that we might have a chance at finding fresh snow. We hadn’t arrived soon enough, though.

Now, we’d be lucky to catch a whiff of powder before it all devolved into bumps.

Ever since I’ve gotten that first intoxicating hit, I’ve found myself in situations like this over and over again. Each time I pray, it’ll be different. The pass will close right behind me, clogging traffic. A competing resort will, miraculously, start selling $15 lift tickets, creating a diversion.

And yet, none of these dreams materialize. The self-flagellation continues. Until it doesn’t.

Usually, in late March or early April, most people forget about skiing. Maybe they get distracted by their tax returns. Or, spurred by the marginally warmer weather, they buy a bright-green driveable John Deere lawnmower, opting to trim grass instead of skiing.

I don’t know what it is, really, and it isn’t my business. But I’m not complaining. For me, this spring tipping point is when the ski season really starts.

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Mostly, it’s about avoiding those crowds. After months of cramming into jam-packed lodges and being forced to breathe other skiers’ air (yes, by that I mean farts), I’m ready for the quieter, free-range experience.

The lines vanish, too—another boon. If I wanted to stand around and pick my nose, I’d go to the DMV without making an appointment. Skiing’s supposed to, you know, involve skiing. Speaking of appointments, mid-season powder days at some resorts have devolved into a logistical operation that, quite frankly, I don’t think humans are built to endure alongside a 9-to-5. 

First, you have to double—and triple—check that you have a calendar reminder set for the weekly release of parking reservations. Then comes waking up at an unholy hour, followed by a dark drive that may involve dodging deer who’ve just graduated magna cum laude from Front-Bumper Inspection School.

Never mind the other drivers on the road who, equipped with gallons of unwarranted confidence, think they can pass you at 85 miles per hour. After arriving at the mountain, sometimes I’d rather smoke a cigarette than go skiing.

A few slushy turns under a bright, blue sky melt away all that nonsense, though. Gone are the requirements to pack crinkly jackets and balaclavas. I can forget half my gear, and make do, for the most part, with whatever I find in the trunk of my car.

I still wear mittens, a persnickety personal preference I can’t explain, but you don’t have to when the sun’s beaming overhead. Let those digits hang out. It’s like a day at the beach. Skiing without icy winds and frozen feet is proof, maybe, that God exists.

That’s not to say spring is all about goggle tans and Hawaiian shirts, even if those are some of my favorite parts. Oftentimes—but not always—the first leg of spring looks different, producing powder with an obvious bonus: many skiers have moved on. Their loss is a gain for the diehards.

The closer it gets to June, the better and more scandalous skiing powder feels, triggering the same part of your brain that engages when you find a pair of lightly used skis for far less than they should be. Of all the months, April or May remind me the most of a bargain basement, brimming with overlooked treasures.

Still, I’ll happily settle for the corn snow that dominates the late-season calendar. I even consider it one of the season’s prime selling points.

Unlike powder, it gets better (to a point!) as the day progresses, rewarding late starts and sloth-like behavior that aligns more closely with the side of skiing I’ve started to prefer: leisure. Plus, the experience of skiing corn rivals that of powder. It’s smooth, pliable, and less exhausting than the deeper, heavier stuff. 

In the heart of winter, there are, of course, moments and places where none of this applies. At magical little ski areas further beyond the reaches of civilization, catskiing operations, and below skintracks everywhere, you can ski powder in peace.

Those slices of quietude feel harder and harder to find, though. That isn’t bad, necessarily—change is the only constant, and I’m glad that more people have found a love for skiing.

I’m also glad that, as long as John Deere is in business, I won’t need to worry about having the slopes and the slush to myself.

Related: The Best 10 Days of Skiing Sun Valley Has Ever Seen