Chapter 7: Big Sky, Family on the Mountain & the Super Bowl

February 6–10, 2026

The Montana sunrise hit around 6:45am somewhere between Red Lodge and Absarokee — the kind of sky that explains everything about why people leave good careers and busy cities to come back here. My brother had told me to take a left turn out of Red Lodge. “Don’t follow Google. You’ll miss a beautiful drive.” He was right. I had my coffee, the
Crazy Mountains rising on my right, and five days at one of the biggest ski resorts in North America ahead of me.
I’d been to a lot of mountains on this trip. I knew what a resort access road looked like.

The drive from Bozeman to Big Sky was something else. The Gallatin Canyon road winds up through rock walls and over the river, narrow and dramatic, the kind of approach that makes you think you’re going somewhere hidden —
somewhere that doesn’t give itself up easily. Butch Cassidy had a place like this. A hole in the wall. You had to know it was there.

Big Sky delivered on the promise. I made it to the resort and was on the slopes before 11 on a beautiful blue sky day.

Day one was solo. After three days in Red Lodge with Rick and Kathi — hiking, skiing, hot tubbing, standing in the dark talking about Dandy Lightning the pony — being back on the mountain alone felt like the right reset. Big Sky is enormous. At over 5,800 acres it’s the largest ski resort in the country, and I approached it the way I approach most
every new mountain: methodically, learning the lifts, finding the lay of the land. One note: the Ikon Base pass at Big Sky does not include the tram to the summit — an extra $20 I filed away for later. I’d save the top of the mountain for when my siblings arrived. As it turned out, by the time we rode it the blue sky was long gone, replaced by fresh powder and the snow clouds required to make it. But that’s getting ahead of the story.

My left knee had opinions about day one. I didn’t entirely listen. I jumped on the Swift Current 6 high-speed lift at 10:43 and spent the next three hours working my way around the mountain — blue Jay Walk to greens Mr. K and Mr. Ed, back up Swifty, across to the Explorer Gondola, down Crazy Horse and Marmot Meadows to the Ramcharger 8 lift up to Everett’s 8800 restaurant. Over the next five days that place rocked some well-dressed non-skiing parties riding the Ramcharger up for the evening. I covered 9 lifts, 21 trails, and 15.1 miles at a high point of 9,808 feet — a solid first day on a mountain I was just beginning to understand.

I drove back down the canyon to Bozeman that afternoon and picked my sister up at the airport around 3:30. She’d come to see two of her three brothers — and her youngest son, who was finishing his second season as a snowboard instructor at Big Sky. The third sibling in our family — my middle brother David, three years older than me and only
eleven months younger than Rick — was the one who started all of this. He’d gone on a church ski trip at 14 and came home convinced our parents to take the whole family skiing the following year. We were on a shoestring budget — the kind of family that took wonderful vacations that always included camping out and bologna sandwiches. When we got to Breckenridge, mom had us all spraying Scotch Guard on our ski pants. AKA the jeans we wore most every day. I had never skied a day in my life. My brother David said: follow me, I’ll show you. We got on the mountain and went to what felt like the very top of the world. I learned to ski trying to keep up with him.

Standing on Big Sky all these years later, the three of us talked about that — recalling what we could, or imagined from core memories fifty years old. Maybe we’ll all get together next year.

My sister Trish and I checked into the Holiday Inn Express in Belgrade — just down the road from Bozeman — and upgraded for $10 to a room with a full pull-out sofa. Then we connected with her son, picked him up at his place, and took him and his roommate to dinner at Longhorn.

Her son’s story deserves its own paragraph. A year and a half earlier he had converted an old Chevy van into a travel van — built it out properly — with a plan to head west, find a mountain, and live the snowboard life. This was his second winter at Big Sky. He’d learned the first year that the van, while perfect for summer, was not built for a
Montana winter. It was parked at his parents’ house. He’d pick it up in spring and spend his summers in it — probably in Idaho. Some people dream about that life. He was living it.

His roommate, we learned at dinner, was married — wife a nurse working in the area and pregnant. The mountain life in all its forms, all at one table.

The next morning Trish and I caravanned up the canyon with her son and his roommate — dropped them at the employee entrance, parked in the carpool lot, and walked over to meet him for tickets and rentals. He’d taken care of everything. Free pass for her. Half-price rentals, sized and fitted on the spot. They headed to work. We headed to the
mountain.

She was wearing a big red coat — the best navigational decision of the day. Easy to track her on any run from any distance. She’d actually skied Big Sky the year before with her husband and son, so the mountain wasn’t entirely new to her. Within a few runs she had her legs under her and was skiing well.

We covered a solid portion of the mountain and by noon it had warmed up so much we tracked back to the carpool lot to shed some layers. Her free pass included tram access, but we agreed to save it — when Rick arrived we’d go to the top together.

Ikon logged over 23,000 feet of vertical, 34 trails, 17 lifts, 27.2 miles in just over six hours.

On the drive out of the resort area, traffic stopped. A herd of elk was crossing the road. We sat there and watched them pass — unhurried, magnificent, completely indifferent to the line of cars. Only in Montana.

On the way back down the canyon we connected with Rick, who said he’d probably arrive around 5. We pulled into the Holiday Inn Express parking lot in Belgrade and he was already there, waiting. That evening we went back into Bozeman for dinner — all three siblings, nephew, and his roommate at Sidewinders, a very cool and packed American grill. The food was excellent. We sat around that table for a while, enjoying the Bozeman vibe. Three siblings who don’t get to do this nearly enough.

Day three, February 8 — Super Bowl Sunday — we skied together, all three of us, with about four inches of fresh overnight snow making the mountain softer and quieter. We stayed and skied the whole day. Ikon shows me descending Never Sweat, a black diamond, at 2:36, followed by a few green runs down to the base around 3 before heading back to catch the game.

As a Chiefs fan I had context. Six years earlier — on my dad’s 80th birthday, February 2 — I had taken him to the Super Bowl in person in Miami. Chiefs versus San Francisco. The Chiefs came back to score 21 points in the fourth quarter and win 31 to 20. I still think about his face when that game turned.

Last year my sister and her husband had made a last-minute decision to go to New Orleans for the Super Bowl — their first time attending. The Chiefs lost that one. New Orleans helped soften the blow, she said.

Rick can take sports or leave them — typically leaves them — but he’s good company in a room during a big game. He’s there for the people, which is honestly the right reason. By halftime Trish announced she was heading to the hotel bar across the parking lot to meet her son and watch the rest of the game with him. Of course we tagged along. The
hotel had just opened — we were the only ones in the place. We ordered food and drinks and settled in at the bar. As kids will do, her son eventually called to say he wasn’t going to make it after all. We enjoyed being together anyway. The Seahawks won.

Day four, our nephew joined us. By mid-morning Trish went off with him on a solo tour while Rick and I explored on our own. When we reconnected for an early lunch Trish wanted to take a break — she’d been trying to keep up with her son on fresh powder and more challenging terrain and needed a moment to catch her breath. That gave Thomas a chance to see what his uncles could handle. My theory is Trish asked him not to bring us back until we screamed uncle.

He showed us around the mountain, taking us on runs we wouldn’t have found on our own. It wasn’t long before we were on the Challenger 3 lift, climbing up through clouds and snow toward the black diamonds. He pointed to some guys and said that’s the drop-in we’ll take back under the lift — but maybe not jumping the snow fence. I thought:
there’s nothing worse than skiing these runs with very little visibility. That was until we took the tram to ski Liberty Bowl, Screaming Left, and Erika’s Glade the next day.

Ikon logged nearly 23,000 feet of vertical, 43 trails, 17 lifts, 24.8 miles at a high altitude of 11,174 feet.

Day five — the tram day. Still cloudy and snowing. No view. White sky, white mountain, white everything. Trish took one look at the conditions at the top, took a picture, and made an extremely sensible decision: she rode the tram back down.

The rest of us skied it.

My nephew went first, disappearing into the white. Rick followed, not far behind. I stood at the top of the steepest, least visible terrain of the entire Ski Camino and did what any reasonable 62-year-old pilgrim would do: I clung to the side of the hill and tried to remember how to breathe. I really didn’t want to slide another inch. I was terrified. I went for it anyway — and lost a ski almost immediately.

I had no idea where Rick or Thomas were. I couldn’t see five feet. I lay there on one ski at the top of Liberty Bowl in a whiteout and thought: what have I gotten myself into? A skier coming down behind me stopped, picked up my ski, and brought it to me without being asked. I clicked back in, took a hard left, and found my nephew and brother waiting about twenty feet below.

From that point down it opened up — a long, steep, powdery run to the bottom. It had to be the longest, most difficult run of the entire trip. The knee held. The legs held. By the time I reached the lift at the bottom I was grinning.

The drive back that evening took a couple of hours. It was snowing hard and somewhere ahead of us vehicles had been in an accident. We sat parked on the road. Trish found some music. We got comfortable, spent some quality time with each other and our phones, and waited it out. There are worse places to be stuck.

Rick and Trish headed out early the next morning. I went back up the canyon. Day six — 46 trails, 27.2 miles, my biggest single day at Big Sky. I connected with my nephew around 11am and we skied together for a couple of hours before going our separate ways. I made it back over to the Challenger 3 lift and skied Moonlight and Bad Dog again — this time on a brilliant blue sky day when I could actually see and appreciate what I’d skied blind two days before. A different mountain entirely.

Five days. The largest ski resort in North America, bookended by a solo blue-sky arrival and a Super Bowl in between. 120 miles skied across the week. Big Sky earns its name in every sense — a mountain so large it takes days to begin to understand, and a sky above it that makes everything else feel appropriately small. Five days with my siblings. That doesn’t happen nearly enough either.

I’ll be back. For both.

The next morning I drove back to Bozeman. This time to pick someone up, not drop them off. My wife was flying in. The Ski Camino was about to become a somewhat different kind of journey.

Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 7

Take Rick’s shortcut: If someone who lives in Montana tells you not to follow
Google, listen. The drive from Red Lodge through Absarokee to Bozeman along the
Crazy Mountains is worth every extra minute.

Drive the Gallatin Canyon slowly: The road from Bozeman to Big Sky is part of
the experience. Pull over if you can. It earns its reputation.

Big Sky on the Ikon Base pass: Five days included. At 5,800+ acres it’s the
largest resort in the country. Spend day one solo learning the mountain before
bringing family or friends.

Ikon Base does not include the tram: Budget the extra $20 for the summit
terrain. Even on a cloudy day with zero visibility it’s worth it — just maybe let your
sister take it back down.

Carpool lot advantage: Coming in with three or four people gets you into the carpool lot,
which puts you closer to the base than you’d expect and simplifies the day.

Holiday Inn Express, Belgrade: Just down the road from Bozeman, a fraction of
Big Sky lodging prices, free breakfast. The $10 pull-out sofa upgrade is worth it for a
group.

Go back to the runs you skied blind: If you survive a whiteout run, come back
on a blue sky day and ski it again. Moonlight and Bad Dog are completely different
mountains when you can see them.

When you lose your ski on a black diamond: Stay calm. Someone
will stop. They always do. Clip back in, take a hard left, find your people, ski it out.
The mountain always has a bottom.

Next: Chapter 8 — Banff Sunshine, Valentine’s Day, Lake Louise & the Fairmonts

Chapter 6: Red Lodge, Basin Lake & Skiing with My Brother

February 3-5, 2026

I came over the top of the hill and saw the lights of Red Lodge below me — the town tucked into the valley, a couple of switchbacks leading down through the dark to the edge of it, the river running alongside. I looked right and caught a glimpse of the main drag lit up, then turned left following the directions through town, past a motel and motor lodge, past a sign that stopped me cold:

PRAY FOR SNOW.

I laughed out loud. After two weeks of powder days I felt almost guilty. I followed the road out into the neighborhood — the kind of Montana neighborhood where each place has three to five acres and a gravel road connects them all. Spread out, quiet, the kind of dark you only get far from city lights. I pulled into the driveway and put it in park.

I was worn out. Skiing all day, then six-plus hours of driving, a full moon over Wyoming, tights in Dubois. I grabbed my backpack — the same one I’d carried through Portugal and Spain on the Portuguese Camino — and went to the door. Rick and Kathi were still up, waiting on me.

I’d never seen their house before. They’d finished it seven or eight months earlier and moved back to Montana — back to where they’d originally met, decades ago, before careers and life pulled them elsewhere for a while. Open floor plan, beautiful kitchen, the kind of place that feels like it was built with intention. They showed me around, offered snacks and something to drink, showed me the bedroom I’d be in. We visited for a while but not too long. I went to bed and didn’t wake up until 8 o’clock.

Rick was already up when I came out. I got the coffee going — they’re not coffee drinkers, so I was on my own there — and a little while later Kathi appeared and we all sat and visited. After a bit Rick started cooking: eggs, sausage, toast, all the trimmings, jam on the table. A proper Montana breakfast after a long road.

We talked about the day. Skiing at Red Lodge was on the table, but we decided to give the mountain a rest and go for a hike instead. Kathi had things to tend to at home. Rick and I had a trail to find.

Around 11 we had our gear together — I strapped on my Camelback with the water bladder, Rick packed his backpack with water containers — and piled into his truck. He pointed things out along the way, his town, his landscape, the roads he knows by heart. The trailhead parking lot was a sheet of ice. I didn’t think much about it. Got out of the truck and immediately went down — bam, hard, on the frozen ground. One of those falls where you just lie there for a second
taking stock of whether anything is broken. Nothing was. My left knee, already talking to me from the Snowbird fall, offered its opinion on the matter. I paid attention to where I was stepping for the rest of the day.

A gate blocked the road — closed for the season — but two lanes had been carved out for skiers, with a sign sorting traffic: traditional skiing left, Vickers middle, walking right. We followed the road up past the closed campgrounds and shuttered cabins to the trailhead that leads up to Basin Lake. Hiking in snow is nothing like hiking on bare trail. It’s like hiking through sand — every step soft and unpredictable, your legs working twice as hard for half the forward progress. I’ve done some snowshoeing, but this was something else.

We came to a waterfall that shouldn’t have been running — not in early February, not up here. But the water was rushing underneath the frozen sections, pushing through in the melt from the Beartooth Pass above, the ice hanging over it in sheets while the creek ran wild underneath.

The trail offered a couple of what I’ll generously call hopeful summits — moments where you’re sure the lake must be just over the next rise, and then it isn’t. We kept going. The snow kept deepening. When we finally reached Basin Lake, we stopped and took it in. Then we tried to walk to the shore. The path had either ended or we’d lost it, because with every step toward the edge of the frozen lake we sank — knee deep, thigh deep, in one memorable moment nearly waist
deep in snow. We post-holed our way to the edge anyway. It was worth it.

Standing there, I reached for my phone and noticed: no cell service. My brother thought he might be able to send a text in an emergency — we started examining our phones, rying to figure out whether the satellite icon meant we actually had satellite service or not. It was, as Rick pointed out, a little late to be thinking about this.

I have a photo from that moment showing my location via satellite image. I’m still not entirely sure what I clicked or whether it would have helped in an actual emergency. It’s on my list to sort out proper backcountry communication before the next long hike in remote terrain.

AllTrails logged the round trip at just under 8 miles with 1,650 feet of elevation gain — about four hours moving, five hours total. What the numbers don’t capture is the split: roughly 70% of the time and effort went up, working through snow that swallowed each step. The descent was faster — considerably faster — but treacherous enough in places
to keep you honest every step down.

We got back to the house as it was getting dark. Longer than we thought, or we went further than we thought. Either way: earned. Rick fired up the grill and cooked steaks. Potatoes, salad, brownies with ice cream. The kind of dinner that arrives exactly when it’s supposed to.

After dinner we visited for a while, and then Rick said: hot tub. He has a hot tub off the back of the deck — and he made sure I knew the story behind why it wasn’t on the deck itself. The advice they’d gotten when they built the place: put it on the deck and you’ll be looking at the roofline. Put it off the deck and you’ll be looking at the sky. I sat in that hot tub and the universe was on full display. The Beartooths dark around us, the stars the kind of thick and uninterrupted you only get at altitude and far from any city. My left knee appreciated the warmth. The rest of me appreciated everything else.

Wednesday, February 4. I was up early, coffee on before anyone else stirred. Rick started cooking breakfast again — eggs, toast, the works — and we talked about the day over the table. Then I noticed something in the pantry: Frosted Mini Wheats. My staple at home. I never remember eating it as a kid, so I’m not sure how we both ended up with the same cereal. Must run in the family.

We decided to ski Red Lodge that day. Rick had a family pass, so that was taken care of. We were unloading skis before 10 o’clock. I decided to use my rock skis — the $7 thrift store pair — given the thin snow coverage, and the fact that I’d only skied on them once before, briefly at Copper Mountain. Seemed like a good day to get properly acquainted.

We skied most every run that was open. Some that Rick hadn’t skied yet because the snow coverage was questionable — I wanted to cover as much of the mountain as I could. Unfortunately, AllTrails didn’t track that day. What I can tell you is that it was wonderful to see his mountain — practically his backyard — and to ski it with him. The views of the Crazy Mountains off in the distance were fantastic. I can’t wait to come back someday with proper snow coverage and ski the whole thing.

The knee held. The rock skis held. A good day all around. That evening we had salad again — Rick apparently takes his salads seriously — and the most important item on the agenda was a return to the hot tub. This time the conversation turned to bears. Apparently they do wander through the property on occasion. We were sitting in the hot tub, in the dark, in Montana, and Rick mentioned this casually. We established fairly quickly that the bear spray was not within reach. We agreed to be alert and moved on to other topics, the stars still doing their thing overhead.

Thursday, February 5. Coffee, Frosted Mini Wheats, another Rick breakfast. Then we decided to go cross-country skiing — back to the road that leads up toward the Basin Lake trailhead, which had those carved lanes for skiers.
Rick and Kathi had purchased cross-country skis but had never skied on them. Not once. I had skied on mine a couple of times, most recently across Jackson Lake — so by the standards of the group, I was the expert. I accepted this responsibility with appropriate humility.

We had a good time and went further than we thought we would. A couple of small mishaps along the way. Kathi fell and bumped her head — a good reminder that helmets aren’t just for downhill skiing. They’re warm too. She got right back up and kept going, which told me everything I needed to know about Kathi.

After that, Rick and I drove up to where they close the highway toward the Beartooth Pass and did a little more cross-country skiing, though the conditions weren’t really conducive. I wanted to get as far up toward the pass as I could. I’ll have to go back in warmer weather — the camping and hiking up there in season is supposed to be something else entirely.

Then Rick gave me the tour of Red Lodge. Post office, airport, rodeo grounds, Main Street, the restaurants they like, the places they go. He drove me up and around the trail he hikes regularly from his house. Now when he calls and says he’s been out on the trail, I know exactly what that looks like and where he is.

We also walked down the trail he’d cut from the house to the irrigation creek that runs behind the property, leading to a fire pit he’d put in. The Christmas tree was still there, cut up and stacked in the pit, ready to burn when the conditions were right.

Walking down that trail I had to stop and take a picture. Something about it reminded me of my grandfather — my mother’s father, a farmer. We used to go up to the farm as kids. He even had horses one we both remembered as ours: Dandy Lightning. Rick and I stood there by that fire pit and talked about that for a while. Some of the best moments of the Ski Camino happened when the skis were off.

That evening: leftover steak, salad again, and one more trip to the hot tub. The bears did not appear. The stars did.

Friday morning I was up early, packing the Tahoe in the dark, rearranging and organizing for the road ahead. Big Sky was next. My sister was flying in that afternoon.

I hit the road before sunrise. Around 6:45 the sky opened up — a Montana sunrise that reminded me why people move back here after long careers and busy lives somewhere else. I made it to Big Sky and was on the slopes before 11. The family reunion chapter of the Ski Camino was just getting started.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 6

Sort out your backcountry communication before you go: If you’re hiking in remote terrain without cell service, know in advance whether your phone has satellite capability and how to use it. Don’t figure it out at the lake. Consider a
dedicated satellite communicator for serious backcountry days.

Wear a helmet cross-country skiing: It’s not just for downhill. Helmets protect you on XC trails too — and they’re warm. Especially important for first-timers on unfamiliar terrain.

Use your rock skis on thin coverage days: If you have a second pair for marginal conditions, use them. Saves your good skis and gives you a chance to get comfortable on a backup pair before you need them.

Red Lodge Mountain: A gem of a local mountain that deserves better snow than it had in February 2026. Come back when it’s fully open — the terrain and the views of the Crazy Mountains are worth the trip.

Hot tub placement matters: Put the hot tub off the deck, not on it. You want to be looking at the sky, not the roofline. Trust the advice.

Build in time away from the slopes: Some of the best moments of the Ski Camino happened when the skis were off — the fire pit trail, the irrigation creek, the conversation about Dandy and Lightning. Leave room for those moments.

Bear spray within reach: If you’re hot-tubbing in bear country at night, know where the bear spray is before you get in. We learned this lesson the easy way.

Next: Chapter 7 — Big Sky, the Family Reunion on Skis & the Super Bowl

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Chapter 5: Jackson Lake, the Priceline Showdown & Jackson Hole

February 1 – 2, 2026

I left Pocatello in the morning with a free breakfast in my stomach and a little extra zipped up in a bag and tucked in my Yeti cooler for the road. The drive north and east into Wyoming takes you through some of the most open, elemental landscape in the American West — sagebrush flats giving way to the sudden drama of the Tetons rising straight out of the valley floor like they have no business being that tall.

At the entrance to Grand Teton National Park I made one of the better financial decisions of the Ski Camino: I bought my America the Beautiful Senior Pass. If you’re 62 or older and you haven’t done this yet, stop what you’re doing. Lifetime access to every national park and federal recreation area in the country for $80. It paid for itself before I reached the first turnout.

The road into the park runs north toward Yellowstone until it doesn’t — blocked by snow about 23 miles in. I drove the whole way, the Tetons enormous to my left, the Snake River valley spreading out below, cars parked at turnouts along the way where people had stopped just to stand and look. I did the same more than once.

On the way back I noticed a turnout with a couple of cars and two sets of tracks heading out across the flats. I looked it up: Jackson Lake. I pulled over, opened the back of the Tahoe, and got out my cross-country skis.

I followed their tracks out onto the ice. The lake was enormous and silent, the Tetons reflected in the snow, the only sound my skis and my breathing. I skied for about 30 minutes — made it roughly three-quarters of the way across before I turned back.

Two things turned me around. The daylight was starting to go. And I’d noticed something else out on the lake: animal tracks, heading straight across. Big ones. Whatever made them hadn’t been worrying about the dark.

I decided I wasn’t interested in being dinner.

Into Jackson that evening, looking for a place to stay. There was one hostel in town — but it had no kitchen facilities, which meant no cooking, which meant the budget math didn’t work. I drove to the Super 8.

The guy at the desk wouldn’t honor the Priceline rate when I walked in and asked. It never hurts to ask.

I pulled out my phone. Opened Priceline. Booked the room while standing at his counter.

He watched me do it. Then he gave me the room.

As it turned out, this was one of the best Super 8s of the entire trip. Walking in I was hit immediately by the smell of popcorn — one of those old-fashioned popcorn machines glowing in the lobby, the kind that makes a place feel like somewhere rather than anywhere. The breakfast the next morning was a cut above the usual spread. The whole place had a quality to it that matched its location — Jackson is not a cheap town, and even the Super 8 had absorbed some of the character of the place.

I slept well. Tomorrow was Jackson Hole.

The golden ticket system at Jackson Hole is worth explaining. Jackson Hole is not on the Ikon base pass. But with thin snow conditions Ikon pass holders were offered a discounted single-day ticket during select windows – and they extended it just long enough for me to grab one at half price. I drove to the parking lot the next morning, caught the bus to Teton Village, walked to the ticket window and they handed over my golden ticket.

It worked flawlessly.

I started the way I usually start an unfamiliar mountain: methodically. Green runs first, learning the layout, getting a feel for the snow. The groomers were excellent but off-piste it was icy early — treacherous enough that staying on the groomed runs wasn’t timidity, it was good judgment. My left knee from the Snowbird fall was a quiet but constant reminder to stay smart until the snow softened. Good judgment and self-preservation sometimes arrive wearing the same outfit. I worked up through the blues, let the mountain reveal itself.

By about 11:30 the snow was softening. I was ready.

I rode the aerial tram to the top.

At the top sits Corbet’s Cabin — a small warming hut perched at the summit with views that make it difficult to leave. I had a waffle and a coffee and sat with it for a while. It was my dad’s 86th birthday. I took a picture of the Tetons from the top of the world and sent it to him.

Then I dropped into Rendezvous Bowl.

Jackson Hole earned every bit of its reputation that afternoon. The bowl, the scale of it, the runs fanning out below — it’s the kind of skiing that recalibrates your sense of what a mountain can be. I finished around 3pm having covered as much of the mountain as one day allows, which is not nearly enough.

Jackson Hole goes on the list for a return trip. With more than one day.

The drive to Red Lodge was six or seven hours. I wasn’t sure I’d make it the whole way — but I stripped off my ski gear down to my base layer, Under Armour pants and jacket, and pointed the Tahoe east into the dark.

About halfway, somewhere in the middle of Wyoming, I needed gas. I pulled into Dubois and turned into the first station I saw — realizing too late they were closed, though the pumps were still running. I’d pulled past a big Montana-looking guy in a pickup truck who was gassing up with his hood up, the kind of man who could change a transmission in a parking lot without breaking a sweat.

I looked in the rearview mirror at him. Then I looked down at myself.

I was in tights.

There was no way I was getting out of the truck in tights in Dubois, Wyoming. I found my jeans in the backseat, pulled them on in the front seat with considerable effort, and got out to pump my gas with my dignity more or less intact.

I wish I’d made this drive in daylight. I could sense the Wind River Canyon and Boysen State Park passing in the dark — the scale of the landscape coming through even without being able to see it properly.

But then I came over a hill and the full moon was enormous in the sky ahead of me, hanging over the road like it had been placed there on purpose. I pulled over, took pictures, and texted my brother to ask if he had the same view from Red Lodge.

He was waiting up when I arrived. Past 10 o’clock, a long day behind me, family ahead. The Ski Camino had just gotten better.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 5

America the Beautiful Senior Pass: If you’re 62 or older this is the single best deal in outdoor recreation. $80 for lifetime access to every national park and federal recreation area in the country. Buy it at the first park entrance you reach — you’ll use it immediately.

Jackson Lake cross-country skiing: Pull over at the Jackson Lake turnout on your way back from the Yellowstone road closure and ski the lake. Bring your own skis, follow the tracks, and turn around before dark. The Tetons from the ice are unforgettable.

The Priceline counter move: If a hotel won’t honor their Priceline rate when you walk in, open Priceline on your phone and book it while standing at the desk. Works every time.

Jackson Hole golden ticket: Ikon pass holders can purchase discounted single-day tickets at Jackson Hole — roughly half price. Buy in advance online for the best rate. Well worth it for one of the best ski mountains in North America.

Start Jackson Hole methodically: The groomers are excellent but the off-piste terrain is icy early in the day. Start on greens and blues, let the snow soften until mid-morning, then push into the harder stuff.

Corbet’s Cabin: Ride the aerial tram to the top and stop at Corbet’s Cabin for a waffle and coffee before dropping into Rendezvous Bowl. The views alone are worth the tram ticket.

Drive Wind River Canyon in daylight: If you’re heading from Jackson toward Red Lodge, time it so you’re through Wind River Canyon and Boysen State Park before dark. The scenery is spectacular and you’ll regret missing it.

Next: Chapter 6 — Red Lodge, Basin Lake & Skiing with My Brother

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The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.

Chapter 4: Steamboat, the 4am Wild Hair & Snowbird

January 30 – February 1, 2026

I pulled out of the Zephyr Lodge parking lot and pointed the Tahoe north on Highway 40. The family was headed home to Kansas City, Missouri. I was headed to new territory I’d been dreaming to explore, Steamboat Springs.

The drive up takes you through some of the most dramatic mountain scenery in Colorado — on a clear day. This was not a clear day. Coming over the pass into Steamboat the snow was falling so hard I could barely see 20 yards past the hood. Parts of it were white-knuckle driving even with four-wheel-drive, the road disappearing into white in every direction. I gripped the wheel, kept it slow, and trusted the Tahoe.

Rocky Mountain High

It was worth it.

I arrived around 11am, suited up in the parking lot, made a sandwich from the leftover lunch meat still in the Yeti cooler from Winter Park, and caught the bus to the resort. The bus drops at a pedway that runs through a fantastic common area at the base — shops, warmth, the smell of food, a big crowd of skiers — and I walked straight through it all with my skis on my shoulder to the Steamboat Gondola and rode it to the top.

It was snowing when I got there.

I want to be precise about what happened next because it’s the kind of thing that sounds like an exaggeration: there were 8 to 10 inches of fresh powder on the mountain that first day. Not packed powder. Not groomed powder. Actual, untouched, knee-deep Colorado powder — the kind that skiers drive eight hours for and rarely find on purpose.

I had not planned for this. It simply happened. That’s what the Camino does.

I spent the morning working my way across the mountain, learning the lifts and figuring out how to get around before settling in for a long set of runs on Morningside. That’s where Steamboat revealed itself to me — the backside, through the trees, thick powder on the blue runs off the Morningside lift. Run after run, the snow still falling, the trees muffling everything except the sound of my skis.

Stunningly Beautiful

For lunch I ducked into Four Points Lodge. There were signs about no outside food — I noticed them, acknowledged them quietly, found a spot by the window in the busy crowd, and enjoyed my sandwich with a view of the slopes. The lodge looked like it had solid food and bar options. I spotted a BBQ porch on the way in. Being from Kansas City I kept walking.

It was snowing when I left to find a hotel for the night.

The second day was powder again.

This time I found the picnic tables they call the Outback — and discovered what might be the best lunch setup on the mountain: a snow beach chair overlooking the slopes, my sandwich in hand, fresh powder all around. No signs about outside food at the outback. Nobody seemed to mind.

After lunch I made a discovery above the Morningside lift. I noticed people hiking up past the Alarm Clock and Snooze Bar run signs. Signs said East Face, No Names … I followed them.

The hike took me up toward North St. Pats, the kind of terrain you can only reach on foot — the kind of place that rewards the curious and turns away the comfortable. At the top I ran into a group of French guys who’d had the same idea. One of them spoke enough English to ask if I’d take their picture against the mountain and the sky. They returned the favor.

I’d heard the double black diamonds on 0ne side calling my name. I listened to it briefly, then made the wiser choice — dropping down Wake Up Call a single black and skiing back to Morningside lift. Some lessons you learn on other mountains. Some you remember just in time.

I covered the mountain from side to side both days, but kept coming back to the Morningside. Some mountains you explore. Some mountains you find a corner of and don’t want to leave. Steamboat’s backside through the trees was that corner for me.

I had five days on my Ikon pass at Steamboat. I planned to ski three or more but only ended up using two. The pilgrim’s instinct was already pulling me toward something else. I just didn’t know it yet.

Each night I drove the hour back to the Super 8 in Craig, Colorado — $50-60 a night, clean, sufficient, perfectly aligned with the hostel budget. The staff was great. I only booked one night on Price Line but when I left to ski I let them know I was day to day and they agreed to honor the same rate if I called back later for a 2^nd night. I called and they honored while explaining to me that housekeeping didn’t work so the room would be just as I left it. The Camino doesn’t require comfort. It requires showing up.

Then it was 4 o’clock in the morning and I was wide awake.

I don’t know exactly how to explain what happened. I was running through logistical options for getting to Jackson Hole. The Camino has always run on instinct more than itinerary. Something just said: go to Utah. Ski Snowbird. Today.

I was on the road before sunrise watching the moonset. I was feeling excited and apprehensive at the same time. It was about five hours to Snowbird. Would this detour be worth it for half a day of skiing?

The drive from Craig to Snowbird runs south through Colorado and then west across Utah — several hours of dark highway slowly giving way to desert light and people scattered across high country lakes ice fishing. The Wasatch Range just ahead of me rising like a promise. I arrived around 11am and immediately encountered the first logistical challenge of the day: parking.

Snowbird’s lots were packed. I drove until I found a spot on Little Cottonwood Canyon Road behind The Lodge at Snowbird. Parallel parking a couple of feet from the edge. I made a decision that seemed entirely reasonable at the time: I suited up but left my tennis shoes on, walked up and through the back parking lot of The Lodge at Snowbird to the aerial tram, put my ski boots on there, and tied my tennis shoes to a nearby ski rack.

The tram took me up and Snowbird delivered me to The Road to Provo and the Knucklehead Traverse to the open bowl was very intimidating Maybe I should have started on some easier runs before jumping off into a black diamond bowl.

I usually get good direction from people I meet riding up the lifts and a Snowbird local delivered a tip that this ski pilgrim needed badly. “Don’t miss the tunnel to Mineral Basin.” Both the magic carpet ride through the tunnel museum and the other side of the mountain were a treat not to be missed.

I skied much of the afternoon on Mineral Basin and Mount Baldy before heading back to the front side. Late afternoon I pointed my skis down Gadzook’s — a fairly narrow black diamond with some serious moguls. I was feeling good. Maybe too good. Where it intersects with Bananas below, I eased up thinking I’d level out on the blue cut and collect myself. Instead I hit a bump, went airborne, and came down wrong on my left knee. Hard.

I lay there for a moment taking stock. The knee was talking to me — not screaming, but definitely talking. I was also quietly grateful I had my helmet on, because I’d gone backwards and my head had met the snow with some authority.

Not hurt badly enough to stop skiing. But aware. Very aware. I had a lot of mountain left in front of me — Jackson Hole, Red Lodge, Big Sky, Banff, Lake Louise. The knee was going to have to come along for all of it. That meant making smarter decisions from here on out: more weight on the right, less pushing into terrain that didn’t forgive mistakes.

I skied the rest of the afternoon on that understanding. When I got back to the bottom I found my tennis shoes right where I’d left them, still tied to the rack. Put them back on. Walked to the car.

The Camino provides. Even the hard lessons.

Back on the road by late that Saturday afternoon, I drove north through Salt Lake City on what seemed like heavy workday rush hour. Salt Lake City was much bigger and busier than I thought. On into Idaho as the light faded over the high desert before I found a Super 8 in Pocatello that fit the budget.

That evening I did laundry at the hotel — a dollar a machine. I mention this because after weeks on the road, a dollar a machine feels like winning.

Free breakfast in the morning, a little extra tucked away for the road. Next stop: Jackson Hole, Wyoming — and a detour into Grand Teton National Park that I hadn’t planned for at all.

The 4am wild hair had worked out. It almost always does.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 4

Don’t fear the white-knuckle drive: Mountain passes in a snowstorm are manageable with four-wheel-drive, good tires, and patience. Slow down, stay focused, and trust your vehicle. The powder waiting on the other side is worth it.

Craig, Colorado as a Steamboat base: The Super 8 in Craig runs $50-60 a night — about an hour from Steamboat but a fraction of resort lodging prices. If budget is the priority, the drive is worth it.

Find the Morningside lift at Steamboat: Most visitors stick to the front of the mountain. The backside off Morningside — especially through the trees on a powder day — is where Steamboat really shines. Don’t miss it.

Hike to the goods at Steamboat: Above the Morningside lift, follow the boot tracks uphill toward North St. Pats for terrain you can only reach on foot. Drop back down via Wake Up Call if you want a single black option back to the lift. Worth every step of the hike.

Steamboat’s Outback picnic tables: Skip the indoor lodge crowds at lunch and find the Outback picnic area. Snow beach chair, fresh air, views of the slopes — and no signs about outside food.

Talk to locals on the lifts: Some of the best tips of the whole Ski Camino came from strangers on chairlifts. Ask where the locals ski, what’s worth hiking to, what you’d regret missing. They always know something the trail map doesn’t show.

Don’t miss Snowbird’s Mineral Basin tunnel: A Snowbird local pointed me here and it was one of the highlights of the day. Take the magic carpet through the tunnel museum and ski the basin on the other side. A unique experience you won’t find anywhere else.

The Snowbird parking hack: Snowbird’s lot fills fast on good days. The road shoulder is a legitimate option if you’re willing to walk. Or in my case, walk in tennis shoes and change at the tram.

Pocatello, Idaho — Super 8: A solid budget stop on the I-15 corridor between Utah and Wyoming. Dollar-a-machine laundry. Can’t ask for more.

Next: Chapter 5 — Grand Teton, Jackson Lake & the Golden Ticket at Jackson Hole

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The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.

Chapter 3: Zephyr Lodge, Winter Park & Skiing with the Family

January 24–30, 2026

We pulled into Winter Park around 3 o’clock, groceries loaded and gear stacked, and checked into Zephyr Mountain Lodge. Seventh floor, two bedrooms — a king with a private bath for me, and a room with a queen and two bunk beds for April and the boys. After two weeks of hostel dorms and a shared room the night before at Snow Mountain Ranch, a private bath felt like the Fairmont.

The condo had a full kitchen, a great room with a fireplace, and a deck with a grill that looked out not over the slopes but across the valley — which on the seventh floor meant wide open mountain views in every direction. We’d be here five days. It already felt like home.

We unpacked, sorted gear, stored skis and boots we brought with us in the slope level locker that came with the condo, put the groceries away, and made dinner before heading down for lift tickets and ski rentals for the boys. By the time we got there the ticket booth was closed for the evening. First lesson of traveling with grandkids: always check the hours. Tomorrow it was.

Morning came with cereal, snow gear, and a ticket booth that was very much open. We got the boys sorted on rentals and headed straight up the Zephyr lift.

The first order of business, as it has been for four or five years of skiing together, was Ski Papa.

If you’ve skied Winter Park with kids you probably have a run like this — the one you always do first, the one that means you’ve officially arrived. Ski Papa is ours. We found it, skied it, and the trip was on.

We spent the morning working through Winter Park’s main terrain, hunting for Dilly Dally Alley — a side-excursion run loaded with bumps and jumps that the boys had been hunting since day one. We didn’t find it that first morning. It stayed elusive just long enough to become a mission.

We went back to the condo for lunch — one of the advantages of slopeside living — then headed out in the afternoon to ski Mary Jane.

That evening I slipped away to the master bedroom to call my wife.

We’d been talking before I left and throughout the trip about the possibility of her joining somewhere along the route — maybe, maybe my brother’s place in Red Lodge, maybe Calgary Canada on the way to Banff. The logistics kept shifting. Nothing had solidified. But that night the conversation finally landed somewhere real: she would fly into Bozeman on February 13th. We’d drive north to Banff together, ski the Canadian Rockies, and make the three-day drive home. She’d handle all the arrangements — hotels, timing, coordinating around my Ikon pass and the days it gave me across the big mountains up there.

She doesn’t ski. But she was coming anyway.

There was only one thing that gave me pause. She’s had altitude issues in the past — the mountains and her have a complicated history. The fact that she was willing to give it another go, to come all the way to Banff for me, meant everything. I was excited and just a little uneasy about how she’d handle it. We’d figure it out when we got there.

I walked back out to the great room feeling like the whole Camino had just leveled up.

The oldest grandson had shoveled the snow off the deck while I was on the phone — without being asked, which felt worth noting. I got the grill going and we had burgers under the mountain sky, watching the AFC and NFC Championship games roll in. Patriots over the Broncos. Seahawks over the Rams. The Super Bowl was set.

The second full day we woke to about four inches of fresh snow and spent most of the day on Mary Jane. April skis well and we pushed into some of the more challenging terrain over there, the boys keeping pace better than they had any right to at their ages.

We also finally found Dilly Dally Alley.

It did not disappoint. Bumps, jumps, drops, the kind of run that makes an 8-year-old’s eyes go wide, as he kept up with his 11-year-old brother trying things he probably shouldn’t. We skied it more than once.

That afternoon April and I took a turn in the hot tub, the steam rising against the cold mountain air. We soaked and talked — the easy unhurried kind of conversation that’s hard to come by in normal life. That evening it was turkey sandwiches and a bucket of Panera broccoli cheddar soup we’d picked up at Safeway. Popcorn and football, while the boys slipped away to play video games. Honestly, how could it get any better?

Day three was one of our biggest day — AllTrails showing over 35 miles on the mountain. The boys were old enough to ski on their own and meet us back at the condo, which gave April and me long stretches of the mountain to ourselves. We pushed into terrain we’d been eyeing, covered more ground than we had with the full group, and had the kind of conversation that only really happens side by side going downhill and back up on the lifts and gondolas — unhurried, uninterrupted, the mountain doing what mountains do.

That night we went back to the hot tub — the youngest decided to join us, and a little while later the oldest appeared at the edge and decided the bubbles were worth it after all. Four of us in the steam, the mountains dark around us and the snow cat in the near distance quietly grooming the slopes for the next day. There’s something to having a hot tub on a ski trip that eases some of the aches and pains.

That night my daughter cooked the now favorite ski trip meal, taco soup with corn bread and Tostitos.

Day four started with a decision that seemed reasonable at the time. We worked our way over to Mary Jane skiing some of the favorite runs, Edelweiss, Wildwood Glade, Bluebell, and Roundhouse before heading down the Derailer to Cannonball.

It’s a black diamond. April was game. The youngest grandson was game — or at least said he was. Reader, it was above their comfort level. It was above anyone’s comfort level except mine and possibly the 11-year-old on his best day. We made it down. Nobody needed ski patrol but the youngest covered the middle section sliding on his ski pants not his skis. But when I suggested we go again I was the only vote in favor.

We spent the rest of the day on friendlier ground and hit the hot tub one more time that evening — April and I, the boys back in the bubbles winding down. Some things are worth repeating. We cooked spaghetti with French bread for dinner. Everyone was starving. The sauce pot was nearly empty but we cooked the entire box of angel hair pasta so we added it to the abundance of extra noodles. With the remaining mozzarella cheese and French bread the boys devoured it all the next day.

Day five — AllTrails clocking 45 miles, our longest day together. We skied everything we’d been saving, hit all our favorites, challenged ourselves and hit the boys favorite terrain parks at least 10 times as they enjoyed the rails, jumps, boxes, quarter and half pipes. We stayed out as long as we could. Nobody wanted to be the one to say it was time to go in.

That evening we cleared out the refrigerator. Leftovers, snacks, whatever remained from the $200 Safeway run — we ate most all of it. What didn’t get eaten we divvied up for the road trips ahead of us. I stashed milk & lunch meat into the Yeti cooler.

The next morning April and the boys loaded up around 8am and pointed their vehicle east toward Kansas City, Missouri. I followed them up Winter Park Dr. to the traffic light and highway 40 where they turned right.

Then I turned the Tahoe north toward Steamboat Springs.

The family chapter of the Ski Camino was over. It had been five days of Ski Papa and Dilly Dally Alley and a black diamond nobody wanted to repeat and spaghetti and soup and hot tub conversations and the boys eventually deciding the bubbles were worth it and April skiing better than I remembered and a phone call from a master bedroom that meant my wife was coming to Banff.

The solo pilgrim was back on the road. But not really alone anymore.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 3

Zephyr Mountain Lodge, Winter Park: Slopeside convenience at a reasonable price if you book last minute and negotiate — the owner was accommodating when I called about limited open terrain. Use current conditions as your leverage. Request the seventh floor for the views.

Colorado Ski Passport for kids: The CSCUSA Ski Passport gives skiers and snowboarders in grades K-6 four days at each of 19 Colorado resorts — 76 days total for just $77 (K-2) or $82 (3-6). Saved significantly on lift tickets. One of the best deals in skiing if you’re bringing grandkids to Colorado.

Stock up before you arrive: We hit Safeway on the way in and spent $200 feeding four people breakfast, lunch, and dinner for five days. We didn’t eat out once. A condo kitchen pays for itself fast at resort prices.

Ski Papa and Dilly Dally Alley: Winter Park must-dos with kids. Ski Papa is a great family cruiser — find it first thing. Dilly Dally Alley is a side-excursion run packed with bumps and jumps. The kids will want to lap it.

Mary Jane for intermediate-advanced skiers: Once the groomers on the main mountain feel familiar, cross over to Mary Jane. More challenging terrain, fewer crowds, and on a powder day it’s exceptional.

Hot tub strategy: After a big day on the mountain, the hot tub is non-negotiable. Go mid-afternoon or after dinner when the crowds thin out. Some of the best conversations of the whole trip happened in that tub.

Taco Soup Recipe: Back in about 2010, on one of our first ski trips in Snow Shoe WV (we were living in Columbia, SC) my daughter and her now husband Stephan made this and it became the official ski trip meal. In a big pot brown 1 pound of beef, drain then add a big can of diced tomatoes, can of black beans, can of kidney beans, 2 cans of rotel tomatoes, packet of taco seasoning and a packet of ranch dressing and a can of corn (drained). Let it stew for a while before dishing it up. Add sour cream and shredded cheese to your liking.

Next: Chapter 4 — Steamboat Springs, the 4am Wild Hair & Snowbird

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The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.

Chapters 1 & 2: The Dream; The Departure, Silverthorn

January 14–17, 2026 — Kansas City to Eldora, Colorado

In 2024 I walked the Portuguese Camino — all 600 miles of it, right to the edge of the known world at Finisterre, Spain. If you’ve done a Camino you know what it does to you. It doesn’t leave you alone after. It gets in your bones and starts asking questions.

Mine started asking them in December, somewhere around mile forty-seven on my stationary bike.

That’s where the Ski Camino was born — not on a mountain, not in a gear shop, but pedaling nowhere in my basement while YouTube played resort videos on my phone. For a month, maybe ten hours total across cold Kansas City evenings, I rode that bike and watched. Steamboat. Jackson Hole. Big Sky. Lake Louise. I was dreaming out loud, visualizing, planning, imagining how it could all connect. Could I string these places together the way the Camino strings its villages? Could I make a pilgrimage out of powder?

The Ikon Base pass made it possible. The open road made it real.

Telling my wife was another matter.

She wasn’t necessarily opposed. But she wasn’t exactly hanging a banner either. I had no firm itinerary, no advance bookings, no hard end date. Just a loose constellation of mountains and a philosophy borrowed from the Camino: show up, trust the path, see what happens.

On January 14, 2026 at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon I stopped talking about it and kissed my wife goodbye.

The 2020 Tahoe was packed with everything I needed and a few things I probably didn’t. My good skis. A pair of rock skis my daughter found at a thrift store for $7 — seven dollars — for the days where the snowpack looked more like gravel than powder. My cross-country skis. Cold weather gear enough to survive whatever the Rockies threw at me, and some tire chains just in case. The Yeti cooler held the remains of a fried chicken family meal from Price Chopper, bought the night before. Alongside it: ramen noodles, cans of soup, a jar of peanut butter, bread, and plastic cutlery.

I pointed the truck west and drove into the dark.

I arrived at the hostel outside Boulder at about one in the morning. The office was closed, the property quiet. I pulled into their car camping area, laid my sleeping mat in the back of the Tahoe, climbed into my sleeping bag, and went to sleep under a Colorado sky.

It wasn’t too cold. The chicken was nearly gone. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

When I woke up the office still wasn’t open, so I did what any reasonable person would do — drove up through Nederland toward Eldora Mountain Resort just to have a look.

It was a beautiful canyon drive in the early morning quiet. By the time I pulled into the Eldora lot around 8am it was already filling up, and somewhere between the mountain air and the sight of those slopes I made the decision: why wait? I got ready in the parking lot and skied my first day.

About 75% of the slopes were open. It didn’t matter. After months of stationary bike dreaming, I was moving downhill on real snow with real mountains around me. The Ski Camino had officially begun.

On the drive back to the hostel I worked through the leftover fried chicken and rolls from the cooler. Pilgrim’s feast.

That evening I checked into the A-Lodge dorm — three rooms, two sets of bunk beds each, a shared bathroom, a common kitchen. I stowed my gear, changed, and made straight for what turned out to be one of the better surprises of the whole trip: a complimentary barrel sauna and hot tub overlooking a small creek.

I sat in that sauna and thought: day one. Not bad.

Back in the dorm I was met by a guy playing a ukulele. He was a friend of one of the residents — visiting from Tahoe, and as it turned out, the group cook. Within an hour I’d been introduced around: a local Nederland resident, a guy who used to live there but was back visiting from Minnesota, and the ukulele player from Tahoe. Before I knew it I was sitting down to chicken fajitas with fresh pineapple, invited like I’d been part of the group for years.

The conversation was just as good as the food. Two of them had met in Hawaii while beach camping — told me you can fly in, grab a tent at the Walmart near the airport, and camp for $10-20 a night. I filed that one away for the someday list.

That evening A-Lodge hosted a few bluegrass pickers above the bar in the main lodge. I don’t remember exactly how it started — these things never have a clear beginning at a hostel — but there they were, picking away in the common area while the evening did what hostel evenings often do. They played into the night.

I went to sleep happy.

The second morning I was up early, had a bowl of cereal, and was out the door before anyone else stirred. Back up to Eldora, for day two.

Another good day on the slopes. When I got back late afternoon I hit the sauna again — already a ritual — and by evening the crew had gathered once more. Dinner was chicken with mac & cheese, cooked together in the common kitchen the way hostel meals always seem to work: nobody planned it, everybody contributed, it was better than it had any right to be.

Then someone mentioned the Squid City Slingers were playing that evening.

Of course we went.

Turns out the Squid City Slingers were from Minnesota — same state as my hostel friend who was back visiting from his old stomping grounds. They were in town recording. One of those only-in-a-hostel coincidences that the Camino taught me to stop being surprised by.

I don’t know if I can fully explain what it’s like to be a 62-year-old guy from Kansas City sitting in a Colorado mountain town listening to a band called the Squid City Slingers with a group of people you met 48 hours ago. But it felt exactly like something I dreamed up — that particular freedom of being nowhere near home, in exactly the right place.

The next morning I was up and gone again before anyone woke up. Blackhawk and A-Basin were waiting.

The pattern was set: rise early, chase the mountain, let the evening surprise you. It would serve me well for the next six weeks.

Next: Chapter 2 — Blackhawk, A-Basin & Settling Into Silverthorne

Chapter 2: Blackhawk, A-Basin & Settling Into Silverthorne

January 17–25, 2026

I was out of the A-Lodge parking lot before sunrise, the Nederland canyon still dark and quiet behind me. My hostel friends were asleep. The Squid City Slingers were presumably sleeping off their recording session somewhere in Colorado. I had a casino town and a ski mountain to get to.

My son had recommended stopping in Blackhawk on the way through — told me it was worth a look. He was right. Blackhawk is one of those only-in-Colorado surprises: a former gold rush town tucked into a mountain canyon that reinvented itself as a casino strip. I made a $50 donation to Caesars on my way through. Call it a pilgrim’s tithe.

📸

Then it was on to Arapahoe Basin — and a long-overdue discovery.

Here’s something I should confess. For years — every time we drove I-70 toward Breckenridge or Winter Park — I’d pass a ski area and think: that’s A-Basin. I’d been carrying that assumption so long it had become fact in my mind.

It was not A-Basin. It was Loveland.

The real A-Basin requires turning off the highway and driving up and over the pass and back down the other side. The moment I made that turn and realized my mistake, I laughed out loud in the truck. All those years of driving by, certain I knew exactly where it was, and I’d never actually gone to find it. The difference between imagining and actually exploring was already paying off — and I was only on day three.

I arrived in the afternoon — deliberately. A-Basin charges a $20 parking fee on weekends for solo skiers that arrive before 1pm. Arrive after 1pm and you park free. I pulled in at 1:05.

The runs were excellent, the afternoon light on the high alpine snow was stunning, and the famous Beach — the flat sunny tailgate area where regulars set up camp on big powder days — was quiet and mild that time of day. I’ll be back for a full day. A-Basin deserves more than an afternoon. But the Ski Camino had its own momentum and Silverthorne was waiting.

I drove down into Silverthorne that evening and checked into the Block Hotel & Commons — and immediately realized this was unlike any hostel I’d encountered in Europe.

The Block is more corporate retreat than pilgrim’s refuge: a full bar, large-screen TVs, an industrial-style kitchen, and room options ranging from full hotel rooms to micro rooms to mixed or gender-specific dorms. I used Priceline to secure my bunk for two nights but didn’t have an option to confirm a lower bunk. At 62, climbing in and out of an upper bunk is more adventure than I need at the end of a ski day. They told me lower bunks were only available in the mixed dorm. Fine by me — but as the Camino has taught me, things have a way of working out: they shuffled things around and got me a lower bunk in the men’s section after all.

The Camino provides.

I arrived just in time for the first NFL Divisional Playoff game.

As a Kansas City Chiefs fan I found myself deep in Denver Broncos country, settling into a table at the Block with a grilled cheese and a bowl of ramen I’d cooked in the hostel kitchen. The bar was packed with locals and travelers alike, and Denver beat Buffalo in an overtime game that had the whole room on its feet. The next day after skiing Copper I caught the end of the Seahawks defeating the 49ers. Then another exciting OT game — Rams over the Bears. I was pulling for Da Bears.

For now: good football, good food cooked in a hostel kitchen. I booked five more nights and finalized arrangements for a condo the week after in Winter Park with my daughter April and her two boys — Grandsons 11 and 8. I couldn’t wait to get back on the mountain with all three of them.

Copper Mountain became my mountain for the week.

I’d never skied Copper before, so the first morning I was in such a hurry that I skipped the bus and clunked across the parking lot and along a path to the Super Bee lift. I spent much of that first day getting a feel for that side of the mountain. The second day I waited for the bus and pushed across to explore more terrain. By day three I’d discovered the West Village — just a quick bus ride from the parking area — and that became my base for the final two days. The full mountain, top to bottom, side to side. I failed to track my days at Copper on the Ikon app but did on AllTrails, showing about 120 miles and 58,000 ft of elevation change. (AllTrails link to follow.)

When you ski a mountain five days in a week you stop being a tourist and start learning it. By the end of the week Copper felt like mine. Except this Double Black that had me flat on my back. Note to self, you’re not skilled enough to ski Double Black!

My two non-skiing days I used well: oil change for the Tahoe, laundry, skis tuned at a local shop, bought a new to me ski coat at a thrift store and several visits to the hot tub. There was a barrel sauna and cold plunge on site out the back door of the Block — a separate business — but I decided to save my money. What I didn’t save my money on was dinner one evening at the Mint Steakhouse. If you’re ever in Silverthorne and you like to grill your own dinner, look it up. Worth every penny of the $60 I left there.

📸

[Photo: Mint Steakhouse — grill your own setup]

My last morning in Silverthorne, Friday January 23, 2026, I was relaxing at the Block when my phone rang. It was my oldest brother — 66 to my 62 — calling from Red Lodge, Montana. He had given me dates he’d be there and I’d been thinking about routes and timing that would coordinate with his schedule. On January 17th we’d started a group text with our sister to see if she could make the trip up for a few days of skiing. The hook: she could see and ski with her son, who works as a snowboard instructor at Big Sky. By the 18th she’d confirmed — flights booked. I’d pick her up in Bozeman on February 6th after my first day at Big Sky. But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

On the phone that morning my brother reported that snow conditions at Red Lodge were poor, barely a third of the mountain open. We talked through contingencies: maybe Bridger Bowl near Bozeman if things stayed thin, or Showdown Montana as a backup. The Ski Camino, it turned out, was quietly becoming a family reunion.

I was still on the phone when I walked out to the Tahoe and started driving.

We rendezvoused at Empire Junction off Highway 40 near I-70. My daughter April had decided to leave a day early to get ahead of a winter storm threatening Kansas — possibly 12 inches on the plains if she waited. I cut my hostel stay a day short and booked a night at YMCA of the Rockies Snow Mountain Ranch — two queen beds, two bunk beds, perfect for four.

After we met and fueled up the vehicles, the 8 year old jumped into my truck and we caravanned over Berthoud Pass together, the mountains enormous and white around us.

It was the first night of the trip I went to bed with the sound of kids jumping off bunk beds and laughing. No TVs at Snow Mountain Ranch — just kids being kids. The next morning we made full use of the place before heading for Winter Park: indoor rock climbing, roller skating, ping-pong, air hockey, and outdoor ice skating complete with an impromptu curling competition that nobody won and everybody claimed to have won.

Then we loaded up, stopped at Safeway to stock $200 worth of groceries for the week — breakfast, lunch, and dinner for four — and pointed the trucks toward Winter Park.

The solo pilgrim chapter of the Ski Camino was temporarily and wonderfully over. Ahead: a slopeside condo, a hot tub, two grandsons who ski faster than they should, and five days on the mountain with April and the boys.

The best kind of detour.

💡 Ski Camino Tips — Chapter 2

Check out my profile on AllTrails:
https://www.alltrails.com/en/members/scott-marr-2?utm_campaign=mobile-iphone&sh=k9pdkw

Beat the parking fee at A-Basin: A-Basin charges $20 for arrivals before 1pm on weekends. Arrive after 1pm and you park free. The afternoon skiing is excellent and the crowds thin out. Plan accordingly.

Always ask for the lower bunk: If you’re 50+ and doing hostel dorms, always request a lower bunk at check-in. Most places will accommodate if you explain — and if they can’t immediately, ask them to keep you in mind. Worth the conversation every time.

Block Hotel & Commons, Silverthorne: A fantastic home base for skiing Copper, Keystone, Breckenridge, or A-Basin. More upscale than a traditional hostel but a fraction of resort lodging prices. Full kitchen, great bar, multiple room types. Highly recommended.

Use the hostel kitchen: Between the kitchen and the free breakfast, I kept food costs to almost nothing most days. Ramen, grilled cheese, and a peanut butter sandwich made from the breakfast bar became my standard kit.

Copper Mountain: Wait for the bus and remember your bus stop name and/or color.

Skiing 101: Don’t get over your skis or ski over your ability. It’s more fun!

Mint Steakhouse, Silverthorne: If you’re in the area and enjoy grilling your own dinner, the Mint Steakhouse is worth the splurge. A great reward after a week on the mountain.

YMCA of the Rockies — Snow Mountain Ranch: A hidden gem a few miles past Winter Park. Family-friendly, affordable, and packed with activities — ice skating, rock climbing, roller skating, games. Perfect one-night stop with kids before hitting the slopes. No TVs — which turns out to be a feature, not a bug.

The Ikon Base pass: Your pilgrim’s credential. Research which mountains are included at your tier before you go — some premium resorts require an upgrade or offer partner discounts. Knowing in advance saves money and surprises on the road.

Colorado Ski Passport for kids: The CSCUSA Ski Passport gives skiers and snowboarders in grades K-6 four days at each of 19 Colorado resorts — 76 days total for just $77 (K-2) or $82 (3-6). One of the best deals in skiing if you’re bringing grandkids to Colorado.

Next: Chapter 3 — Zephyr Lodge, Winter Park & Skiing with the Grandsons

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The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.

SKI CAMINO STATS

A Pilgrimage on Snow

From Kansas City, Missouri through Kansas, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Alberta Canada, South Dakota & Iowa.

Destinations: Colorado; Eldora, Black Hawk, A-Basin, Silverthorn, Copper Mountain, YMCA Snow Mountain Ranch, Winter Park, Steamboat Springs

Utah; Snow Bird

Wyoming; Grand Teton National Park, Jackson Hole

Montana; Red Lodge, Beartooth Ranger District, Custer Gallatin National Forest, Bozeman and Big Sky

Alberta Canada; Banff National Park & Lake Louise areas

South Dakota; Rapid City, Mount Rushmore through Iowa to Kansas City

January 13 – February 21, 2026

New chapters drop regularly. Subscribe and you’ll get each one delivered directly to your inbox — no algorithm required.

The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.

Hello World!

In 2024 I walked the Portuguese Camino — all 600 miles of it, from Lisboa right to the edge of the known world at Finisterre, Spain. If you’ve done a Camino you know what it does to you. It doesn’t leave you alone after. It gets in your bones and starts asking questions.

New chapters drop regularly. Subscribe and you’ll get each one delivered directly to your inbox — no algorithm required.

The Camino provides. Come along for the ride.