Last night, I woke up to percussion on the roof. In late November at 7,000 feet in the Rockies, you’d normally look for snow. But yet another predicted storm had petered out and come in as rain instead.
This storm was going to be big, the local weatherman promised, with some places getting up to 6 feet. But then he downgraded the forecast — and downgraded it again. By the time the system moved off to the east, no more than a few inches had fallen in a couple of high places. We’d seen no significant snow, and we were getting closer to the solstice.
Anticipation is a fickle feeling, a jittery mix of adrenaline and hope. Early winter used to make me excited, no matter where I lived in the West. I’d track storms coming in from the Pacific, waiting for Colorado’s high alpine ski resorts to battle to be the first to open or watching the snowline creep lower in the Pacific Northwest.
But lately that anticipation has been subsumed by dread. Now, the forecast hits me with the wrong kind of adrenaline. I get a cramp in my stomach when storms don’t come. Skiing has made me a barometer for winter, and the recent seasons have gone awry as they become increasingly warm and dry. In the past, I was purely excited about winter storms because I envisioned storm-day skiing and soft turns. Now I worry what the lack of snow means for the future.
As a skier, my happiness is tied to weather systems beyond my control. It might be a sick fascination to keep fixating on snowfall, but it keeps my barometer tuned and makes me look for the bigger patterns.
As a skier, my happiness is tied to weather systems beyond my control.
Skiers can be obsessive, ritualistic and superstitious, prone to worrying about upsetting the cosmic order. We joke about praying for snow, even though we know that’s not how nature works. But I still go to pre-season ski-burning bonfires and wash my car in hopes of encouraging snowstorms. What is that but praying?
There are two reasons to wish for snow: the selfish and the sustainable.
I want snowy winters partly so I can ski — so I can enjoy something I’ve done every winter since I was a tiny kid, the thing that makes me feel weightless and fast and connects me to the world around me. But when I compulsively check SNOTEL sites or ski area base depths, I’m also seeing something bigger and watching the patterns evolve.
Skiing might seem superficial, but winter clearly shows that the climate is changing. It’s made tangible through movement, or the lack of it. The things we love show us where our pain points are, and how much we stand to lose, and how little control we have.
My local ski hill pushed back its opening date this year, as did every mountain in Utah — Deer Valley for the first time in its history. Not only was there scant natural snow, it wasn’t even cold enough to make snow. That lack of snow has cascading impacts, especially on workers and communities that depend on winter tourism. But we don’t just profit from snow; it’s also our most solid water supply.
Nearly every part of the Western U.S. is in drought conditions today. As of December, the National Water and Climate Center’s map of snow-water equivalent is colored red, and most places are less than 50% of average. Snow is our most significant water supply.
Across the West, this slow winter comes after a hot dry summer, when fires crept ever closer to town. Last winter was also dry and skimpy, exacerbating the long-term drought. Ski mountains are haggling over water rights for snowmaking. Lack of snow means increased fire risk and food insecurity, along with entrenched and at times bitter fights over rivers.
We live in a system, and skiing is a specific marker for how that system is changing.
A friend who is a ski guide stopped by the other day, and when I asked him if he was getting anxious about work, he looked north up the valley toward the mountains and grimaced. “I’m not quite worried yet,” he said. Maybe that’s rational, but my worry has already kicked in.
I look at the shrinking reservoirs and the spreading drought predictions. I remember last winter’s scratchy, icy ski turns and the summer’s lack of monsoons, with fire lurking in the background. I know what it’s like to wait for snow without it ever coming.
I also know that it’s still early in the season. Things could change, storms could stack up and keep coming, even though the National Weather Service is predicting a weak and wavering La Niña. There’s a lot of flexibility in the system. I can look at the sky and still feel some hope. I can’t predict what will happen, I just know what the past has shown me.
So, yes, I am still praying for snow, but for many more reasons and with even more fervor than I did before.
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