In the North Cascades, Stevens Pass hides in the shadow of Washington State’s more distinguished resorts, Crystal Mountain and Mount Baker. Like any little brother, he is often overlooked entirely. However, Stevens still boasts an average of 460 inches of snowfall a year and an impressive, for a local mountain, 1,125 acres of skiable terrain. While the 13 lifts only reach 5,845 feet, the Cascade Concrete is delivered in abundance upon its 52 runs by the Pacific Ocean. The front-side shoots and the backside trees draw the locals back to rip all season long. This is where my ski story began, a fixation that became the center of my universe.
I rolled out of my bed that morning with an ever-so-slight hangover. But nothing could damper my mood: I was going skiing! We all piled into my college roommate’s pickup, leaving the rain of Seattle behind for the snow of Stevens Pass, Washington. This December morning, we would take a nice, easy warm-up lap off the Double Diamond chair. There was irony in the pairing of “easy lap” and “double diamond”; however, it went unnoticed, being this was my first time skiing. Total gaper move. I continued in my blissful cloud of ignorance as I pizza’d down the unloading ramp.
As my legs trembled, my friends shouted back to coax me down the mountain. I connected one fall with the next, mustering all my ability to avoid tomahawking the remainder of the run. Dropping into the trees, I felt relief as I used each as a checkpoint, catching my fall on every turn. As I followed my friends down in my pinball fashion, I noticed a change in the terrain, or more, a lack thereof. It wasn’t until my friend stylishly dropped out of sight that I realized I was coming head-on with a cliff. Resembling a helpless baby giraffe on skates, I scrambled to save myself, but my destiny was already locked in. Cliff-hanger style, I managed to snag a root, preventing the premature end of my skiing career. Hanging from the root, the distance between me and the ground I desperately desired to reach was significantly reduced. With a little reassurance from my friends, I let go and bodied the remaining vertical. While few would dare step foot on the slopes again after taking such a tumble, I had my first breath of fresh air. I was free.
My obsession flourished. Balancing my classes and skiing, I made it up to Stevens Pass as many days a week as possible for the remainder of college. My laptop Zoom meetings riding shotgun as I made my pilgrimage. I could not get the powder and trees out of my head.
None of this would have been possible without my two roommates. Both were filthy skiers and Stevens Pass regulars and after they had attempted my life, they were patient and kind enough to take me under their wing. The friends you make along the way are as important to skiing as snow is to the mountains, and the memories made with them would fuel my passion for years to come. Driving at 6 am up the pass after a long college Friday night, our rescue operations for that lost ski in endless powder, and the joyous lunch rendezvous in the backcountry trees. These were the best days of my life.
The special place Stevens Pass holds in my heart will be with me forever. When I dream of trees, I see the backside of Southern Cross, a maze of evergreens calling me to choose my own adventure. When I dream of moguls, there is a flashback to the gritty run under Hogsback in which I honed the art of the turn. When I dream of powder, my mind goes straight to that breathtaking surfy feel, first felt in old Tye Bowl. Don’t tell my mother I said this, but Stevens Pass will always be my true home.
