I started skiing when I was about 9 or 10 years old, on a small dirt mound called Bittersweet Ski Resort, 5 minutes from my childhood home in Otsego, Michigan. It had 11 runs, including moguls, a terrain park, and a few Black Diamonds, and to me, it felt massive. I ended up working there every winter from age 15 to 19 in the rental shop, mostly just to ski for free. Back then, minimum wage was $5.15 an hour, and the lift ticket was worth more than the paycheck.

As a kid, I dreamed of moving out west to work as a ski patroller in Colorado or Utah. But like dreams often do, that one evolved. In my late teens, I discovered a love for music and the art of sound. That passion led me to Seattle after college, where I spent 15 years recording albums, playing in bands, and running sound for some well-known artists. It was incredible …for a while. But burnout crept in. And through all the shows and studio hours, the memory of sliding down snow never really left me.

In January 2018, I moved to Colorado and decided to reconnect with that part of myself. Though I was raised a skier, I’d also picked up snowboarding in middle school and leaned hard into park riding in high school, often competing in snowboard big air and mogul competitions on skis. So when I got back into snow sports, I started with a snowboard setup. It came back like riding a bike, and I loved getting reacquainted with the speed and flow of it.

But as I explored more of what the Rockies had to offer, I started looking beyond the resorts. I wanted to go deeper. Into the backcountry, into quieter places, and into something more challenging. And with that, skiing started calling again. One trip to Wolf Creek with friends was all it took. I rented skis for half a day just to see if I still had it. I did. It wasn’t just muscle memory; it was emotional memory. Something clicked, and I knew I was ready to shift focus again.

Ski touring gear isn’t cheap, so I made the tough call to sell my snowboard setup and invest in skis, skins, and boots. I spent months researching the perfect rig. Should I go light for an easier ascent or heavier for better performance on the descent? In the end, I prioritized performance and picked up a pair of Black Crows Atris skis with Salomon Shift 10 bindings, and K2 Mindbender 120 boots. It’s a heavier setup, but worth it for how confidently it handles the descent.

With Colorado’s notorious avalanche danger, I held off on solo missions until I could take an AVI 1 course. In the meantime, I stuck with experienced partners and safer zones, especially the classic beginner-friendly spot: Upper Hidden Valley in Rocky Mountain National Park, a decommissioned ski area with mellow terrain and amazing views.

That first backcountry day was humbling. Learning how to skin, turn uphill, and manage a heavy setup at altitude was no joke. I only managed about a lap and a half, but five minutes into the climb, I knew I’d found something special and a new lifelong passion.

A few weeks later, I returned after a fresh storm. Conditions were perfect: a foot of powder, light snowfall, and no wind …at least at first. We skinned through tall ponderosas in total silence. My partner was ahead of me, and for a while, it felt like I was completely alone. All I could hear was my own breath and the gentle glide of my skis on snow. I thought of my younger self, the kid from Michigan who once dreamed of this exact moment, and felt a wave of gratitude.

We didn't summit that day (wind and visibility shut that down as it turned from a calm, snowy day to whiteout conditions above tree line), but we squeezed in another lap anyway. The turns were incredible. Honestly, probably the best of the season.

Later in the spring, I got invited to ski Ptarmigan Glacier near the Cathedral Spires in RMNP, my first real mountaineering-style tour with crampons and an ice axe. We started before dawn to beat the warming snow, but I couldn’t keep pace with my buddy and split off to climb Banana Bowl instead so he could still ski the day’s objective. Alone again, I skinned up while the sunrise lit the snow pink behind me. I found myself again beaming with gratitude and so in touch with the beauty surrounding me. The climb started on rock-hard snow but softened into perfect corn by the time I reached the top. Another “best day ever” even though I didn’t get to use my crampons.

I closed the season with a late run at Hidden Valley with close friends, barely scraping together a continuous ski line through the melting snow. It was my first real taste of spring skiing, and I absolutely loved it. Then, in June, we hit Sundance Mountain, again in RMNP. The Parking lot for this zone is also a popular tourist stop along Trail Ridge Road, so we got a lot of questions and odd looks from park goers as we stepped into our ski boots and strapped skies on our packs. This one was unique: start high, ski down, then climb back up. The conditions were a little sketchy with sun cups and rock-hard snow, but we managed a couple laps with crampons and ice axes for the assist. I even strapped my ice axe to my ski pole with a ski strap for a DIY self-arrest tool on the descent. Probably not textbook… but hey, it worked.

This season was a return to something I never really meant to leave behind. Skiing isn’t just a sport for me—it’s movement, meditation, and memory. It’s creative and physical at the same time. After years in the music world, I found a new rhythm out here in the mountains.

There’s still so much to learn. I’m planning on getting my AVI 1 cert, diving deeper into ski mountaineering with some rather lofty goals, and maybe even picking up a lighter touring setup for those big, multi-day missions.

But for now, I’m just grateful. For snow. For lungs and legs that still (mostly) work. For old dreams that waited patiently while I took a detour.

See you on the skintrack.