Snow Bird and Alta Ski Resorts

Snowbird 1/7

It was Wednesday, January 7th, around 5:45 in the morning, and I was wide awake—too awake, really. This would be my first time skiing in Utah, and I was excited in that restless way that doesn’t always translate into sleep. The night before hadn’t helped. Dinner was great, but I had followed it with a chocolate lava cake and ice cream, plus a generous dollop of heavy cream. What I hadn’t thought about was the caffeine hiding in that dessert. Delicious decision. Questionable timing.

I pulled out from my spot near the Capitol and reached Snowbird around 6:30 a.m. The drive up the canyon was uneventful in the best possible way. The roads were completely clear. I’d read all the warnings about canyon traffic and parking and had given myself extra time, expecting chaos. Instead, there were only two other vehicles in the lot when I arrived.

Given the lack of sleep, I did the sensible thing—I lay down and caught up. Around nine, I got up, made breakfast, and walked over to the main lodge at Snowbird. There was already a long line for the gondola, something I usually try to avoid. Tucked into a corner of the lodge is a small but very nice café. I ordered a latte and a pastry, grabbed a seat by the window, and watched the gondola glide up the mountain. Everyone inside seemed to be European, switching effortlessly between their native languages and English. It felt like I’d landed somewhere far from Utah.

Refueled, I headed to the lockers, put my boots on, and walked over to the gondola. I ended up first in line and didn’t have to wait at all. By the time the cabin arrived, the area behind me had filled in quickly. The ride to the top was smooth and quiet.

Gondola Power Room

There was a solid base with some fresh snow on top. I skied until about two, but something felt off. I was constantly out of breath. Between not exercising since before Christmas, the heavy meal the night before, the lack of sleep, and the altitude, I had created a perfect storm. Still, the skiing was good. Visibility dropped later in the afternoon, and I eventually made my way back to the van.

I grabbed something to eat, took another short nap, and then drove off to find a Planet Fitness for a shower. Back near the Capitol, I made dinner and settled in for the night. When I park on the street, I usually pull in late and leave early, but this night I was back well before seven. I was done.

Alta 1/8

I woke up later the next morning and felt noticeably better. I had slept well, which made all the difference. I knew snow was expected, though, and that meant potential trouble getting up the canyon. I skipped breakfast and drove straight to Alta, about forty minutes away.

As I approached Little Cottonwood Canyon, signs flashed “Chains / 4x4 Required.” I wasn’t sure whether the slash meant and or or, so I pulled over and put the chains on. At the canyon entrance, there was a heavy police presence, stopping vehicles and making sure everyone was equipped properly.

At the inspection point, I asked what the sign actually meant. They said it was either or. They were video recording every vehicle going through. I said, “So I didn’t really need the chains?” The guy laughed and said, “You’re the only one who has them—but you’ll be the safest vehicle on the road today.”

I parked at the Wildcat Base lot at Alta, the largest lot and closest to the Wildcat lift and Goldminer’s Daughter Lodge. At first, they directed me into a tight spot, and I told them I wasn’t convinced I’d be able to get out. They agreed and sent me over to park with the other campervans. There were at least fifteen vans lined up. Sprinters dominated the scene. I was the lone Ford Transit. A few of the rigs had price tags well north of two hundred thousand dollars. I couldn’t help wondering if any of them had heated floors.

I felt completely different from the day before. I geared up at the van and walked straight to the lift. It was snowing, and it looked like they’d gotten six to eight inches overnight. Alta felt more demanding than Snowbird, so I stuck to blue runs at first to warm up.

The runs were longer, with more moguls—just how I like it. The skiing kept getting better. Every so often, the sun broke through the clouds, and for a moment it felt like Colorado. I was in heaven. A few times, I found myself floating through untouched powder, free-falling in a soft cloud of snow. That feeling never gets old.

Around 11:30, I ducked into Alf’s near the top for a tea. Seating was scarce. There was a big round table with two guys and plenty of empty chairs. I asked if one was free, and they waved me over. A guy with a camera stopped by and said, “I love your sign.” It read “Wild Old Bunch!” I hadn’t even noticed it. It couldn’t have been more fitting.

We started talking—where I was from, where I was staying—and that quickly turned into questions about the van. The guy on my right was 85. The one on my left was 69 and had open-heart surgery less than two years ago. They had met at that same table the season before and now met up regularly to ski together.

After about twenty minutes, they asked if I wanted to join them for a few runs. Skiing with people who know the mountain makes all the difference. We mostly skied black runs—nothing crazy—but plenty of bumps and good snow.

Just after two, they shut down the top of the mountain. I headed back to Alf’s and built myself a massive sandwich—bread, cheese, meat, condiments, and extras like avocado and jalapeño peppers. It doubled as lunch and dinner. While I was eating, the younger of the two guys came in. He hadn’t been able to reach the slope he was aiming for after we split up.

By then, the clouds had rolled in thick, and I was completely turned around. The only way back, I was told, was to ski to the bottom and take the rope tow over to the Wildcat base.

When I finally reached the van, it was four o’clock. I was surprised at how many cars were still in the lot. A truck had parked next to me without pulling all the way in, blocking one side. Luckily, the car on the other side had already left, and I was able to maneuver out.

There was already a two-foot snow drift in front of the van. I grabbed the shovel and cleared a path, though with the chains still on, traction was never an issue.

Driving back down the canyon toward Snowbird, I passed cars that had honked at me earlier while I was putting my chains on. Now they were crawling along at about ten miles an hour, some pulled off to the side. The backup stretched six miles. I was very happy to have the chains.

At the bottom, I pulled over to take them off. Removing them was noticeably harder than putting them on.

Back at the Capitol — UConn Madness

Back at my now-favorite spot near the Capitol, I relaxed and started to wind down. Then it hit me—UConn was playing Providence, in Rhode Island. One of those rivalries where rankings don’t matter, even though UConn was number four.

I turned it on and immediately questioned that decision. UConn was down by thirteen. Late in the game, I almost shut it off. Then something flipped. The momentum shifted hard. With three minutes left, UConn ripped off an 8–0 run and suddenly they were alive. Possession by possession, they chipped away. When the game tied at 89 in regulation, I was standing in the van, pacing.

UConn went on to win 103–98.

It was absolute chaos—in the best way. The kind of game that leaves you drained but grinning. Whatever energy I had left disappeared, and not long after, I drifted off, still replaying turns in the snow and baskets dropping when they mattered most.