I’m a Diehard Skier, but I Love Summer

The doldrums. The dog days. The constant sunburns. The hazy, drawn-out evenings.

Look: summer's great. Put me on a beach with a cold beverage, and I'm good. But as the warmer months progress, a certain itchiness creeps in. Those odd blasts of summer chill—when the temperature drops to 60 degrees inexplicably—start tasting like fall and the eventual return of winter.

Occasionally, I'll wander by the gear closet and stare at my skis longingly. If I'm feeling really pent up, I might even give them a flex. "Yep," I'll think. "Still looking forward to that."

Skiing rocks—that's an ironclad sentiment. It's seasonal, though, so when summer arrives, we skiers are left with a big, fat, gaping pit. The challenge, then, is finding something to fill this pit because, without an adequate replacement or supplement, many of us start to feel a little bonkers. You can only go so long without getting your fix.There are a lot of options here, some of which are productive—others, not so much. Sometimes, I find myself fixating on the weather. NOAA. AccuWeather. Apple Weather. The Farmers’ Almanac. We all have our vices.

There's something uniquely silly about repeatedly checking the weather or long-range, seasonal outlook as a skier in July. Believe it or not, the next big storm isn't right around the corner. It's going to be 90 degrees. For the next month. That doesn't stop me from peeking at forecasts—and being disappointed—more than I should, though, which reminds me of the Time headline referring to a truly bizarre experiment conducted by a group of psychologists: "You Would Rather Endure Electric Shocks Than Sit Alone With Your Thoughts, Study Finds."

And man, do those thoughts wander in the summer. Sure, any month is a great time to experience an existential crisis. Not sure what you're doing with your life? Easy—overthink it. Just realized that you have to spend another six decades paying taxes and rent? Time to ponder the void. For us skiers, though, summer is existentialism primetime. Without our pilot light—an obsession with sliding down mountains—it becomes easy to start asking ourselves serious questions. Are my skis too long? Should I get pin bindings? Would it be weird if I watched that compilation of Henrik Harlaut barking like a dog again ?

For me, these tendencies used to be worse. When I was younger, fall became a truly torturous waiting game. I'd go to bed thinking about skiing. I'd go to school thinking about skiing. I'd drive home from the mountain thinking about skiing. The relief only came when the conditions aligned and I could finally drive my skis through a fresh helping of snow. When it all melted away, I was at a loss and, admittedly, unsure of who I was.

Skiing—and any form of outdoor recreation, for that matter—anchor our identities. It helps us feel competent and creates an automatic, built-in community. The loss of this tribal element with the turning of the seasons is understandably tough. LINE's "I'm a skier" shirts were popular for a reason. But as the years passed, something strange happened: I started to genuinely enjoy and look forward to summer.

Growing up is funny like that. Balance, not intensity, starts to become a higher priority. I discovered fresh hobbies and realized that going outside doesn't need to be a full-bore affair.

Climbing, running, and photography all became new outlets. I knew I'd never do any of those things at a particularly high level, but they took the feverish skiing obsession down a notch between June and September by providing another way to get my kicks. And perhaps more importantly, it allowed me to expand my definition of selfhood. Just because you're a skier doesn't mean you're only a skier.

Summer's a break, too. Life's tiring. Work, maintaining friendships, keeping track of your health—all these things pull from our limited supplies of energy. So does skiing. Driving to the hill, purchasing new gear, planning trips, endless forecasts, and powder hype cycles can eventually lead to some fried nerves. When the lifts stop spinning, I breathe a somewhat guilty sigh of relief as I relish the prospect of living slower. There are other things I want to accomplish and explore, and when the snow's falling, I don't have much time for anything other than skiing. Summer provides ample time for this search, and, to be frank, a respite from the frigid weather just feels good.

Don't get me wrong—I'm not suggesting I'm over skiing, but my love affair has become a bit more patient. Our shared sport is cyclical. It's a rollercoaster in every sense of the term. Conditions change weekly. That’s part of the magic.

In fleeting doses, the moment we’ve been fantasizing about for months, if not years, arrives. Few things in life live up to their expectations, but skiing’s associated build-up regularly pays off when we finally drop into the promised land. That eventual release wouldn’t have the same allure if you could always get it. The waiting game isn’t a curse, it’s a blessing.

Yet, despite all the soul-searching, I know how I—and maybe you—will feel once the webcams start slowly turning white. Those old tendencies will start creeping back in. My search history will become dominated by NOAA queries. I'll start tracking storm cycles again and daydreaming of powder turns.

With the memory of a summer well-enjoyed fading, I'll be ready—really ready—to get back on snow. In the meantime, though, my schedule is packed: I've got to figure out where I'm going to lay in the sun next.

Related: How Aaron Fox Skied 200 Days After Shattering His Femoral Neck

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