The Plattekill Blog

No two ski seasons are ever the same, even if the locations remain a constant. I spent another closing day at Plattekill this year, but I didn’t wear my Yankees hat, or even ski in a t-shirt like so many other times.

On our first ride up, the trees were encased in thick ice, evidence of a freezing mist that had blown through a couple of days earlier. Conditions started relatively fast but were quick to soften. There was no White Ribbon of Death, the snow was simply too forgiving.

Beyond the unseasonable weather, it was classic Plattekill. We were practically alone on the hill. The other cars in the lot certainly didn’t add up to lift lines or entangled skiers on the slopes.

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Spring was sure to make an appearance at some point this month, but it was hard to believe that hot on the heels of one of the biggest dumps of the season we’d be skiing without our shells.

After devouring the pow harvest from my desk on Friday, my brother and I were champing at the bit to ski. Our enthusiasm spread, and we ended up back at Plattekill with several others who came to the mountain for the first time.

I didn’t have to look in the rearview mirror to see the quizzical looks as we drove past Belleayre. I could feel the lasers bouncing off of my neck and quickly pointed out that when skiing, going the extra mile is often worth the effort.

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