The Nomadic Ski Bum | Stories

It wasn’t the first time I’d thawed peanut butter on the dashboard. But this time I thought I was doing the right thing for the environment and my body with the all-natural variety—turns out separated oil has a higher freezing temperature than Skippy. C’est la vie, you live and you learn. Like the frozen jar above the steering wheel, some of my ski-bumming rituals remained the same. I still mix a spoonful (or two) of peanut butter in my oatmeal.

I still spent many après evenings at the aquatic center, trying to absorb as much heat as possible through hot-tub osmosis with all the other dirtbags in town. I still used gas station washrooms, library wifi, and did laundry as infrequently as possible. I still didn’t pay for a lift pass because I preferred to earn my turns in the adjacent world-class backcountry.

But my process had significantly evolved from years past. I shuddered at the memory of hanging damp outerwear, boot liners, and socks anywhere in the cab where they’d receive heat from the defroster, the stench filling the cab as I drove through the night to the next destination, praying things would dry by the next morning.

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Professional freeskier Cody Cirillo goes bottoms up into the belly of the beast on his 1962 Chevrolet School Bus in Revelstoke, BC. The local aquatic center serves as many things for ski bums: a place to relax, to shower, to find ski partners, to find WiFi, to après… and, occasionally, an open lot for some DIY home-on-wheels repair.

Professional freeskier Cody Cirillo goes bottoms up into the belly of the beast on his 1962 Chevrolet School Bus in Revelstoke, BC. The local aquatic center serves as many things for ski bums: a place to relax, to shower, to find ski partners, to find WiFi, to après… and, occasionally, an open lot for some DIY home-on-wheels repair.

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Stranded between somewhere and nowhere in Northern British Columbia. The nearest tow was almost two hours away and the driver suggested not going back unless you wanted to be stranded an extra week waiting on parts. The truck broke down on multiple other occasions along the drive to Terrace, BC, but all vehicle issues were forgotten during an epic meter-plus storm at Shames Mountain Ski Area.

Stranded between somewhere and nowhere in Northern British Columbia. The nearest tow was almost two hours away and the driver suggested not going back unless you wanted to be stranded an extra week waiting on parts. The truck broke down on multiple other occasions along the drive to Terrace, BC, but all vehicle issues were forgotten during an epic meter-plus storm at Shames Mountain Ski Area.

This season was different. And not just because I’d made the luxurious (in a ski bum’s mind) upgrade from the uninsulated bed of a cramped pickup to an over-the-cab camper with room to stand and a full-size bed. It wasn’t even for the miniature wood stove installed in the back that dried out my liners in a fraction of the time (and without causing the whole cab to wreak something awful). Rather, it was the latter of the previous process that had evolved the most: these days, I wasn’t going anywhere. My home on wheels was, ironically, staying put.

Storm chasing is a common refrain among the vehicle-dwelling community of ski bums. That’s why you live in the back of a cold, damp rig all winter, right? Ultimate mobility. The option to pack up and move with the wind. Twelve hours away never felt so close as when a meter of fresh snow fell on the other side of the range. It’s a frenetic, addictive pace of life.

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Kelly Spencer breaks trail by headlamp in Turnagain Pass. Alaska’s Chugach is a world-renown spring big-mountain destination, but deep mid-winter turns can be found by those willing to put in dawn patrol starts and twilight exits during the north’s darkest months.

Kelly Spencer breaks trail by headlamp in Turnagain Pass. Alaska’s Chugach is a world-renown spring big-mountain destination, but deep mid-winter turns can be found by those willing to put in dawn patrol starts and twilight exits during the north’s darkest months.

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Life on the road presents nearly unlimited hours of quiet reflection. Matthew used to constantly drive with music or podcasts, but over the past couple of years, he finds himself spending more time exploring his thoughts in silence. Let your mind wander, just keep those tires between the lines.

Life on the road presents nearly unlimited hours of quiet reflection. Matthew used to constantly drive with music or podcasts, but over the past couple of years, he finds himself spending more time exploring his thoughts in silence. Let your mind wander, just keep those tires between the lines.

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Dirtbag fine dining on the porch with a view. A couple of spoonful’s of peanut butter (and a dash of maple sugar, courtesy of Matthew’s Vermont roots) keep the body in motion. At his “peak” ski bumming existence, the author was eating oatmeal for every meal of the day… Although he skied a lot of powder in those days, he doesn’t recommend that diet.

Dirtbag fine dining on the porch with a view. A couple of spoonful’s of peanut butter (and a dash of maple sugar, courtesy of Matthew’s Vermont roots) keep the body in motion. At his “peak” ski bumming existence, the author was eating oatmeal for every meal of the day… Although he skied a lot of powder in those days, he doesn’t recommend that diet.

I used to feel that way. A gnawing itinerancy pushed me from one locale to the next. The grass was greener, the pow deeper, the beer colder. Living on the road, I felt pangs of guilt when I stayed somewhere for a length of time—wasn’t that contrary to the point of this lifestyle?

But in the constant pursuit of deeper turns afar, sometimes you’ll ski right past the biggest pow stash of all, hidden in plain sight.

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The pièce de résistance of the author’s camper, a Cubic mini wood stove, capable of cranking out dry, moisture-wicking heat all night–crackling ambience and firelight included. (Right) The late Matthew Bunker dives into a peanut butter and nutella slathered pancake in Revelstoke, BC, before a full-day backcountry mission. Bunker and the author spent multiple seasons racing around Rogers Pass, enjoying the après scene at the local aquatic center, and debating the merits of adding hot sauce to anything and everything.

The pièce de résistance of the author’s camper, a Cubic mini wood stove, capable of cranking out dry, moisture-wicking heat all night–crackling ambience and firelight included. (Right) The late Matthew Bunker dives into a peanut butter and nutella slathered pancake in Revelstoke, BC, before a full-day backcountry mission. Bunker and the author spent multiple seasons racing around Rogers Pass, enjoying the après scene at the local aquatic center, and debating the merits of adding hot sauce to anything and everything.

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The late Matthew Bunker dives into a peanut butter and nutella slathered pancake in Revelstoke, BC, before a full-day backcountry mission. Bunker and the author spent multiple seasons racing around Rogers Pass, enjoying the après scene at the local aquatic center, and debating the merits of adding hot sauce to anything and everything.

The late Matthew Bunker dives into a peanut butter and nutella slathered pancake in Revelstoke, BC, before a full-day backcountry mission. Bunker and the author spent multiple seasons racing around Rogers Pass, enjoying the après scene at the local aquatic center, and debating the merits of adding hot sauce to anything and everything.

I’ve come around. Maybe the price of gas went up. Maybe I grew jaded pursuing something as mercurial as weather. Perhaps I remembered the old adage, “you don’t leave powder to find powder.”

In my early years on the road, I could see how those words played out literally. I wasn’t going to leave in the middle of a storm cycle for the chance at an extra couple centimeters down the road. But over years of rambling from mountain town to alpine hamlet in search of something a bit better than the last, I’ve come to see powder in the proverbial sense as something more than the lightest, fluffiest dendrites dancing down from the heavens.

Among the snow-shredding community, powder is a place where we find peace and happiness. A state of mind where we live most intentionally, fully present amid the all encompassing lightness of perfectly crystallized water. Now, I can’t guarantee any place on earth delivers the surfy flow of bottomless powder day-in and day-out (British Columbia? Japan, maybe?), but I promise, if you slow down and embrace your surroundings, you’ll find that local stash.

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You don’t know till you go! After ascending through boilerplate crust and debris, Rob Gardiner slashes through a powdery north-facing couloir while the rest of the San Juan’s harvest corn. Usually, it pays to walk further, but this line was visible from Rob’s front porch.

You don’t know till you go! After ascending through boilerplate crust and debris, Rob Gardiner slashes through a powdery north-facing couloir while the rest of the San Juan’s harvest corn. Usually, it pays to walk further, but this line was visible from Rob’s front porch.

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Follow the light: Gabby Palko avoids the shadows and stays 10 degrees warmer on a frigid day in Thompson Pass, Alaska. The ambient temperature hovered around -30 Celsius at the Pass during a mid-winter cold snap. On the plus side, the crew skied some of the lightest density powder in recent memory.

Follow the light: Gabby Palko avoids the shadows and stays 10 degrees warmer on a frigid day in Thompson Pass, Alaska. The ambient temperature hovered around -30 Celsius at the Pass during a mid-winter cold snap. On the plus side, the crew skied some of the lightest density powder in recent memory.

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Ski-in, ski-out access. Snow piles up at Matthew Tufts’ front door in front of his two primary modes of transportation in Flathead County, Montana. During the early season, Matthew usually spends a couple of weeks running uphill laps on skinny skis at Montana’s Whitefish Mountain Resort to get his fitness up for backcountry touring.

Ski-in, ski-out access. Snow piles up at Matthew Tufts’ front door in front of his two primary modes of transportation in Flathead County, Montana. During the early season, Matthew usually spends a couple of weeks running uphill laps on skinny skis at Montana’s Whitefish Mountain Resort to get his fitness up for backcountry touring.

It won’t be found on a long bushwhack nor on first chair nor by stealthily following locals around the hill. It can’t be bought and neither can it be stolen away. Powder takes patience—let the figurative snowfall add up. Stay awhile. Powder is a feeling, a serenity and sense that you are exactly where you should be. When you feel it, you’ll know.

Us ski bums don’t live in our vehicles because we like to drive. We do it because we like to ski. And the less often I’m behind the wheel dreaming of better conditions elsewhere, the more often I can be present on my skis cultivating a community and sense of belonging that makes every day on skis feel like a powder day.