Ah, ski season. The glorious few months when I pretend I’m an elite athlete gliding down snowy mountains, only to spend a good chunk of my time skiing 200 yards behind Nolan and Cali, and the rest of the time realizing ski boots suck and my feet are completely reshaped to match the interior of a boot that’s only slightly more comfortable than a metal box. 

Having skied in multiple regions of the U.S., I have to say the end comes quick in the Northeast. The snow starts melting, the mountain becomes a sad patchwork of muddy dirt and slushy puddles, and within one long weekend of rain, it’s over! Even though the snow is gone, I find myself checking the weather forecast. “Maybe there’s one more storm coming? Maybe just a few more days?” Maybe, just maybe, me and the kids can squeeze in a trip to North Conway on a spontaneous weekday. Spoiler alert: You can’t…and I didn’t. That was last month. The season has ended and, as my good friend Bill Belichick says, “we’re on to baseball!” So I store the ski gear in the basement and just hope the rocks, ice, and roots I’ve routinely traversed haven’t done too much damage, and I can stretch another year out of an aging pair of skis (and knees). 

The end of ski season also means the end of the après-ski ritual and bidding farewell to my favorite lodge bartender who has known me by my first name for at least the last 5 years. So long to my lunch bowl of ChiliMac (chili + mac & cheese + jalapeños + bacon), overpriced chicken fingers & french fries, and a questionable amount of IPA’s and “specialty” cocktails. And we also bid adieu to our friends from Pembroke and Marshfield, MA - a fun lot of families, jokesters, and “ham & eggers” that make skiing tolerable for an aging athlete who defines a “good day” not by how many runs I booked on my ski app but by avoiding serious injuries, including my pride.  

We are lucky here in New England, we still have 4 seasons, well maybe 3, as Spring seems to remain in hibernation most years, followed by a Star Wars-esque hyperdrive leap to Summer and the hot and muggies. And even though Winter can be relentlessly cold, windy and dark I’m sure going to miss it, mostly the genuine love of the outdoors, the carnival of laughs we create, and the last second weekend bookings on VRBO. I’ve accepted that it’s time to move on, there’s baseball and lacrosse games to coach and football season will soon be here. 

But alas, here's to ski season—the good, the bad, and the inevitable snowball fight with my own sanity at the end. I’ll miss you, snowy slopes. You’ve given us joy, tears, and a serious lack of personal space while sharing a lift with a total stranger from Hartford. See you next year.