I Moved Away From the Mountains, But My Ski Dreams Won't Let Me Go
We cut into the trees, cruising over a packed but pliable surface.
The snow, I remember, was a little funky, with a ribbed texture on top, probably from the winds that howled the night before. Regardless, we found our rhythm fast and skied faster. This was a storm day, and a frenetic energy hung in the air. We hoped to get our fill before the masses arrived.
At the bottom, I paused outside the lodge. Stinging flakes whipped past. They clung to the side of the wood-paneled building, which had tall, mirrored windows. My ski buddy was inside, grabbing a coffee or taking a leak, allowing me a few minutes to soak in the joy of the elements.
The run we'd just skied might've been at Grand Targhee. The lodge, though, recalled an old-timey Pacific Northwest ski area. It hit me: where was I? My eyes opened. I woke up in a third-floor apartment. Outside, the city bustled.
The dream differed from my reality this winter. It's now been more than a year since I moved away from the mountains. In my past homes, skiing was a weekly, if not daily, routine. As a college student, most of my best friends skied. To keep any conversation going, one of us could comment on the latest competition, the snow conditions, or, after a few drinks, the ski video we'd never end up finishing. Whenever possible, we'd hurry back to our dorm after class, throwing on our gear and driving to the hills. After the snow melted, I'd be left fantasizing. There were two phases of being. Either it was the ski season, or I was looking forward to the ski season.
To cope with the newfound distance, I built a mental wall between myself and the mountains: no obsessive forecast watching or impulsive gear purchases, please. I don't think this change was intentional. Instead, some part of myself knew that if I didn't curb the skier's brain, I might get antsy and end up skiing down an escalator.
Still, the dreams have kept coming, pulling me somewhere else. Just days before, another impossible scene unfolded. On a dark hillside at night, I came across a lone chairlift. Suddenly, it was snowing hard, and skiers began to queue up for the lift, their figures silhouetted against bright spotlights. Another time, I found myself in the middle of a freeride venue-which I haven't done since I was 18-blood pounding, fear coiling in my stomach.
Each flash of color and feeling dredged up past moments, blending them together. The night skiing, maybe, came from an after-work ritual I had. Even though I wasn't very good at it, freeride once consumed my thoughts. As for Targhee? It ended up delivering two out of the three meager powder days I enjoyed this winter. That makes some sense. Dreams, one theory goes, are a way for the brain to sort and consolidate memories. Along the way, we end up living them. Or, in my case, skiing through them.
At one point, I got a little woo-woo, thinking the visions were trying to tell me something: not to forget the wonderful single-mindedness skiing gave me. That idea, however silly, made me emotional. There was no guarantee we'd come equipped with a biological tape recorder. And better yet, one that, on occasion, delivers reminders of the things that shaped us, no matter how distant they are.
Ascribing some mysticism here doesn't seem too far-fetched. Skiing has a spiritual streak for a reason, and it's not only because of the mushrooms. Losing yourself in the white room does, sometimes, feel like communicating with a higher power. Maybe this power keeps finding me each night.
Or, you know, I just got lucky and went on a few astral ski vacations, taking advantage of one of evolution's pleasant quirks. After all, if my other dreams have a divine message, I haven't figured it out. Usually, I'll go on some absurd adventure, like raiding the Death Star with my fourth-grade crush. Other times, the stress of daily life will bubble up, and, at around 3 a.m., I'll look down, realizing my hands are infested with angry bees.
Either way, it's a small comfort to know that even if I've temporarily stepped away from the weekend warrior mantle, there's always a chance I'll spend the night with snow under my feet, revisiting those quiet moments in the alpine, each one with the soft crackle of a wood stove that won't die.
Of course, the lack of paid parking in the great beyond is a nice bonus.
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This story was originally published May 26, 2026 at 7:47 AM.