New York City ski bums are something of a rare breed. There’s a special kind of stubborn resolve required to juggle a love for this town and a love for sliding down frozen mountains. No matter where we are, we’re always a bit torn, a bit displaced.
I’m a city kid born and raised, and unlike many of those I grew up with and around, I’ve somehow held on in this unforgiving town while friends and family have been scattered either to the suburbs or to more laid back cities in other states. Despite skyrocketing rents and the promise of better jobs elsewhere, I’ve clung desperately to my hometown. I’d never once considered leaving – until I went skiing for the first time three years ago at the age of 42.
