This season has been one of the most incredible winters New England has seen in… honestly, I don’t even know how long. Decades? Centuries? Since the Ice Age? In my 23 years of Vermont skiing, I can confidently say this will go down as one of the greats, the sheer amount of snow, the consistency of conditions, the cold, the warm, and everything in between.
But I’ll be honest: this winter changed me.
I believe I’ve developed… an addiction.
Not to caffeine. Not to my phone. Not even to gummy bears. Something far more dangerous. I’m addicted to powder days.
Now, battling addiction is hard. Thoughts constantly racing through your head. Losing relationships. Making questionable life choices. Some people say certain addictions are “healthy,” like going to the gym or brushing your teeth. But I’m here to tell you: they all take a toll. And now it’s time to shed light on my struggle.
Mother Nature has been a full-on enabler this season. She’s been feeding us powder days left and right, barely giving us enough time to recover from the high of the last storm before dumping another foot on us.
And you might think:
“Oh Griffin, being addicted to powder days isn’t bad.”
But you’re wrong. So, so wrong.
The thoughts of fresh powder will not leave my head. They haunt me. They stalk me. They whisper sweet nothings in my ear whenever I see the word “flurries.” It’s starting to take away from the joy of everyday skiing. It’s chipping away at that proud part of me that used to enjoy any condition like a true New England skier; ice, slush, rain, sleet, existential dread, whatever.
And now I fear the worst:
Am I turning into a snobby West Coast skier? You know, the ones who brag about “blower pow” and get offended by anything less than 12 inches? The ones who measure storms in feet, not inches? The ones who refer to snow as “cold smoke” like they’re reviewing a craft cocktail?
I’m terrified. But admitting the problem is the first step… right?
