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I Left the Mountains—Does That Mean I'm Not a Skier Anymore?

Originally posted on Powder | By Ian Greenwood | Last updated Sep 1, 2025 12:49 PM ET

Within a few weeks of arriving in San Francisco, I backed into a car. I stepped outside, but before I could assess the damage, a shout erupted from across the street. It came from a big man standing next to a motorcycle who, not-so-politely informed me that if I hit his car—which was nowhere to be seen, by the way—he would knock me out.

Welcome to the city, I guess.

I had dreaded the move. For decades, I’d lived in places that made a mountain-adjacent lifestyle easy. Every weekend after work or school, my friends and I would brave traffic-choked boulevards, chasing the next storm. Everything revolved around skiing. The sport absorbed my hopes, my dreams, and, eventually, my career.

Now, I was being berated, unsure if I would soon be the lucky recipient of a tire iron sandwich. The encounter with the biker thankfully fizzled out, but I spent the next few weeks wondering what the hell I—a skier—was doing in San Francisco. It was crowded and noisy. Waymos whizzed by, artfully dodging pedestrians. Getting anywhere was a hassle.

Most importantly, in San Francisco, there were no real seasons. The year’s first snowfall—a weather event anticipated by skiers everywhere—wasn’t coming. The temperature hovered between mild and a bit less mild. I needed to bring a light coat if I went out at night, but I assumed that my bright orange down puffer might spend the next few years in purgatory. When November arrives, I know my skier's version of a circadian rhythm will be confused.

Soon, memories of the places I’d previously lived emerged. I missed leaving my apartment in Montana, getting on my bike, riding to the river on summer afternoons, and plunging into the river. The defunct ski area I used to tour up before heading to work at one of my first post-college jobs, a deli, loomed. Even scraping ice from the windshield of my car during the frigid winters suddenly felt quaint and aspirational.

So, I began looking at San Francisco like eating vegetables. I was there to support my partner—that was it. After our Californian sojourn, we’d return to a place where time moved more slowly and the mountains weren’t so far. Despite my upbringing in Seattle, I didn’t think I was a city person anymore. The frenetic energy wouldn’t change me, I decided.

But in flashes, I began to understand what drew people to my new home.

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There were countless places to eat—steaming ramen, gargantuan burritos, and fresh sushi. I stumbled into a store that sold one of the coolest collections of magazines I’d ever seen, and left with a copy of the Adventure Journal. A bar populated by hip, tattooed 20-somethings where house music blared could’ve been Berlin. Life coursed through the city’s streets, and I eagerly sought the next park, beach, or view. Happenstance had taken me from the mountains and plunked me in a place I never expected to live. I was glad about it.

All the while, I wondered if I was changing.

I’d been a card-carrying member of the ski community since I was in diapers. Suddenly, though, I could faintly see a version of my life without it in San Francisco. I’d begun climbing again, bought a small point-and-shoot camera in the hopes of reigniting my interest in photography, and embraced the reality that next winter, I wouldn’t ski as much as I had in the past. Tahoe was close, but not that close.

My comfort with the growing distance between myself and skiing did, at times, make me guilty. Calling yourself a lifelong or passionate skier is a weighty honorific that implies, heaven forbid, you’re actually good at skiing. And to be good at skiing, you have to ski a lot. What if I got rusty? It also suggests an unwavering commitment to the sport. Sometimes, when I told people about the three hour drive from San Francisco to Tahoe, a voice murmured in my head, “If you really loved skiing, you’d quit your job, sell most of your belongings, and live in your car.”

Is any of that true, though? Not necessarily. Once you get past the pleasantries, skiing will always be a friend who never forgets to pick up the phone. You can forget them for a few weeks, months, or even years. You can be another person for a little while. You can come back and spend a few laps remembering how to carve. Skiing doesn’t judge. The longer the gap, the sweeter the reunion.

In the middle of the summer, two of my buddies visited San Francisco. To celebrate their arrival, my partner and I ventured downtown with them, hopping from bar to bar. Towards the end of the night, we got separated. After sending a few texts, we realized they were chatting with some locals.

My partner and I decided to let them have their fun. Just drunk enough for some self-indulgent sentimentality, we wandered to the top of a hill and waited. Buildings peered through the mist in the distance, their windows gleaming orange. Cool fog blanketed everything.

I was surprised and relieved by the sudden swell of love I felt staring at the skyline. I also knew that I hadn’t found the place where I would grow old. There was another friend of mine—and yours, too—patiently waiting for my next visit.