It was early 2022 and I had found myself back in Washington state during a rare winter. As a chronic sun chaser, I spend most of my time in East Africa and South Asia and try to only make an appearance in the Northern Hemisphere during the idyllic days of summer. But here I was, in Seattle during the darkest, gloomiest season of the year. The best way to beat the Seattle gloom in January? Make a trip to the Cascade Mountains, where the sun glimmers against massive snow drifts and cozy cabins are the lodging of choice.
On a sunny Saturday morning, I bundled up in mismatched technicolor ski gear. I headed to the ski slopes with a group of my closest friends, whom I’ve known for well over a decade but only have the opportunity to see once a year at best. We had visions of swishing down the mountains all morning and afternoon. A few of us, including myself—a very fair-weather person who typically avoids winter like the plague— needed a ski lesson.
We walked into the building for ski rentals to inquire about gear and lessons, the ground pooling with water from melted snow. A lack of available poles pushed our lesson to the afternoon.
“Sorry,” we were told by the rental guy. “But feel free to grab a seat in the bar until then.”
Defeated in our goal of spending the morning skiing, we clamped on the clunky ski boots we had just rented, stomped through the dense snow, and clambered clumsily up the wooden steps to the chalet-style bar. It was 11 a.m. and with no place to go for a few hours, we looked at one another. The decision was unanimous: It was time for a pre-ski beer.
Eager to soak up the sun, we carried our sloshing pints to the outdoor balcony. The winter rays warmed our faces as we cheers-ed with our Washington ales. We got lost in conversation, catching up on months of lost time. Our picture-perfect view of skiers curving down the snowy slopes was all we needed. Skiing could wait for another day. Another round of beers was up next.
Words + Photo by Alicia Erickson