There is no real way to sugarcoat it: this was one of the worst snow years in a generation.
Living in Oregon, I usually spend much of the fall watching the mountains, waiting for those first storms to stack up and slowly build toward ski season. There is a rhythm to it every year. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, I expect to get my first turns in, and if it’s much later than that, I’ll start to get irritated.
My first ski day this season did not come until Christmas Day — and that alone says everything about this winter.
Instead of easing into the season in late November like usual, it felt like winter never really arrived in the way it was supposed to. I figured the storms would come, and the resorts would start firing, making us forget about the late start. However, the snowpack across Oregon stayed well below historical averages for much of the winter, and every time it looked like things might finally turn around, another warm stretch or dry period seemed to knock the momentum right back down.
By the time the season was over, I had logged about half the number of ski days I would normally expect in a typical year. Part of that was simply because the season started later and ended earlier than usual. But a big part of it was also that conditions just were not all that inviting a lot of the time.
There were very few mornings when you woke up to fresh snow on the snow report and instantly knew you needed to get to the mountain. Powder days were rare, and instead of storm skiing and soft turns, I found myself skiing a lot more groomers than I usually do. That is not necessarily a bad thing, because I love the feeling of carving on snow, but it definitely changes the feel of a season when the days start to blend together, and you realize you have spent more time riding manmade corduroy and recycled hardpack than floating through fresh snow.
It also became one of those winters where some of the little rituals and seasonal preparations started to feel almost unnecessary.
For one, I barely needed my snow tires. I responsibly put them on in late November because that’s what I always do in preparation for the first day on the mountain.
Normally, throwing those on feels like the official start of ski season. It is part preparation, part optimism. It means snowy roads, early drives, and plenty of mountain mornings ahead. There are usually a dozen days a year when I’m super glad I have them to navigate the Govy 500 on my way to Mt. Hood. This year, they were mostly just overkill, doing a job I hardly asked them to do.
The same went for my annual snow park pass, which, in Oregon, is required and helps fund things like plowing and the maintenance of ski area parking lots. Usually, that feels like a worthwhile little investment in winter access. This year, I definitely did not get my money’s worth. There were simply not that many storm days, and not that many mornings when the lots needed the kind of snow removal that makes you appreciate where that money goes.
And then there was the terrain.
One of the hardest parts of a low-snow year is not just skiing less, but skiing less of the mountain. There were lines, zones, and pockets of terrain that I just never really got to touch because they either never opened or never filled in enough to feel worth pushing into. The trees, especially, were a letdown. Usually, they are one of my favorite places to ski, but this year, they just never got the kind of coverage that makes you feel confident dropping in without worrying about rocks, stumps, or thinly buried hazards lurking underneath. Even on a powder day, it felt like you had to stick to groomers or risk turning your new skis into rock skis. That is one of the more frustrating things about a season like this. Even when you are skiing, it can feel like you are only getting a partial version of the mountain.
And yet, for all of that, I still had a blast.
That is the funny thing about skiing. Even in a bad year, it still has a way of being deeply fun. Maybe not always in the way you hoped for in November, but in the way that still matters when you look back on it later.
Because at the end of the day, making turns is always fun.
There is just something about skiing that still delivers, even when the conditions do not. A mediocre groomer day can still beat a lot of other ways to spend a winter morning. A short season can still hold a lot of really good moments. And a year that feels disappointing on paper can still be full of memories you would not trade. It was head and shoulders above the season I missed due to a ruptured Achilles tendon, and at least it wasn’t cut short by a global pandemic.
This season, more than anything, reminded me that what keeps me coming back is not just powder, deep snow totals, or dream conditions. It is the experience of being there.
It is skiing with my kids and my family. It is chairlift rides, parking lot conversations, mountain views, hot chocolates, and all the little moments in between runs that somehow end up meaning just as much as the skiing itself. Those are the things that still made this winter worth it, even when the snow did not cooperate.
On our last day of the season, a stellar, sunny day, my boys asked if we could get huckleberry milkshakes on the way home. “Why not,” I thought. “Let’s end this season the right way.” We created memories for sure. I have a feeling that “last day of the season milkshakes” will become a tradition.
Would I have loved more storms, deeper coverage, and a few all-time powder days? Obviously.
But even a rough season still gave me days on the mountain with people I love, and that is enough to make it a good winter in its own way.
So yes, this was one of the worst snow years in a generation. It was frustrating, underwhelming, and at times a little depressing for anyone who loves winter.
But it was still ski season. I still got to click into my skis. I still got to make turns. I still got to share those days with my family.
And honestly, that is enough to leave me feeling grateful.
Because if this year taught me anything, it’s that even a bad ski season is still a fun ski season.
And next year has to be better.
I can’t wait.
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