The Bittersweet Experience of Skiing Powder on Closing Week

After a long winter with what felt like more nights spent on planes, in hotels, and even a few in a tent near the border of Russia than in my own bed, I finally returned home to Oregon a couple of weeks ago.



Before returning home, I spent five straight days bell-to-bell ski testing and shooting photos at POWDER's annual test, known as POWDER Week. Mother Nature rewarded us for all our work with an epic pow day at Grand Targhee that killed whatever energy my legs had left in them that week.



It was one of those days you know you'll think about for a long time, and it felt like the perfect powder day to end the season with.



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Like much of the West, Mt. Bachelor hasn't had an easy season.



It started late, and the storms that did arrive were often followed by warm periods, making snowpack retention difficult. I'd had a few sleeper days of catching storms right as they came in, still cold, to get some pow turns in, but largely, days at Bachelor this year were a little slushy and reserved for catching up with friends on skis when I was home.



Last week, Mt. Bachelor announced that they'd close for the season on April 19th, the following weekend. Warm weather in Bend when I got home had me dreaming of sunny spring volcano skiing, a few more slushy days at the mountain, finally organizing the explosion of ski gear in my garage, and taking my feet out of ski boots for several months.



That is, until the little orange icons indicating 6 or more inches of snow in the forecast app I use started showing up at Mt. Bachelor this week.



Undoubtedly, a part of me didn't want to care. I had been fighting the kind of all-consuming exhaustion that comes with months of back-to-back travel and far too much work.



The concept of putting on ski boots, being cold, and the impact of skiing on my body felt like the last thing I needed, but I also couldn't deny the tiny part of me that couldn't help but do just a few more turns.

The storm blew in Tuesday night with strong winds all the way into town and heavy rain. Up on the mountain, snow started to fall. By Wednesday morning, the snow stake showed roughly 7" of fresh snow, and the weather was predicting strong winds.



I told myself to let the storm die down and that I'd ski the next day, until my neighbor, Ryan, FaceTimed me from the lift (talk about neighborly!).



This past Wednesday was one of my favorite afternoons at Mt. Bachelor. Empty, quiet, snowy.



The exhaustion I'd been fighting never really left me, but I also couldn't deny the glee of a few more turns down some of my favorite spots at the mountain. Places in the trees that I'd been too scared to ski for fear of low coverage were suddenly filled in, and I never once hit the crust I kept expecting to feel under all that fresh snow.



Wednesday night brought another 11 inches of snow to the mountain before the clouds broke. My alarm went off, and much to my cat's dismay, I checked the snowstake and rocketed out of bed before he could crawl on top of me.



Within an hour, I was headed up to the mountain again.

There's a bittersweetness to late-season storms like this one. Just like the one we got at Targhee at the end of POWDER Week, it feels like nature, the universe, something, saying, 'I know you're tired, but if you can rally for a few more laps, it'll be really good!'



In years like this one, with weird weather, low snow, and unshakeable loss in our communities, we are threatened with the prospect of rethinking a life spent in pursuit of joy in the mountains.



The ski area's impending closure is a tough pill to swallow after nearly two feet of cold, deep snow in two days.



The part of me that will never not want two more (and skip the last!) laps, grovels with every tired muscle in my legs and the ache in my back, feet, and knees that feels constant at this point in the season.



But as they say, all good things must come to an end, and a new season promises a clean slate. So, really, what better send-off for the ski season is there than a last powder day, a music festival, and a little time on the butte?

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This story was originally published April 17, 2026 at 5:12 AM.