I went out this morning almost exactly as the solstice arrived. Not ceremonially, not deliberately poetic, just because that’s when I woke up and the light was finally there. The shortest day of the year, measured not by clocks but by how quickly the cold settles back in once the sun drops behind the ridge.
It’s low tide out there right now. Thin coverage, rocks showing through, wind-worked snow, the kind of skiing that doesn’t look impressive from a distance and doesn’t reward laziness up close. This isn’t the season for abundance yet. It’s the season for paying attention.
I didn’t see anyone else. No skiers in the parking lot, no tracks cutting across the slope, no noise except the wind moving across the surface. That absence matters. Solstice is a pivot point, but it doesn’t announce itself. There’s no sudden shift, no immediate payoff. Just the quiet knowledge that the arc has stopped falling and begun, almost imperceptibly, to rise again.
The ridge was firm and exposed, the snow textured and honest. The track heading out felt more like intention than ambition. This was travel, not conquest. The sun sat low and harsh, flattening contrast and throwing long shadows that made every ripple in the surface legible. Snow like this demands presence. You don’t ski it fast. You ski it correctly.
Dropping off the top ridge, the turns came slowly. Each one placed, measured, adjusted mid-arc as the surface changed beneath the skis. Wind board giving way to chalk, chalk stiffening unexpectedly, the occasional scrape of something you couldn’t quite see but knew was there. Low tide skiing teaches restraint. It asks you to manage pressure, to stay centered, to accept that flow looks different this time of year.
And then, lower down, it opened just enough. Not soft, not deep, but workable. Enjoyable in the way that competence is enjoyable. Turns linking cleanly, rhythm returning, the mountain offering a small nod of approval for having approached it on its own terms.
That’s what surprised me most: how good it felt. Not despite the conditions, but because of them. There’s something grounding about skiing when expectations are low and attention is high. When you’re not chasing the best possible version of the day, just the truest one.
Solstice doesn’t promise immediate change. It just marks the moment when the loss stops. From here, the light returns in increments too small to notice unless you’re looking for them. A minute here. A sliver there. Enough, eventually.
This morning felt like that. Low tide, yes, but stable. Quiet. Satisfying in a way that doesn’t need to be advertised. A reminder that even in the leanest part of the year, there’s still something to work with. Still a reason to go out. Still turns to be made, if you’re willing to make them carefully.
