I met my husband in the White Mountains of New Hampshire in December 2016 at Wildcat Tavern’s weekly pasta feed for ski area employees. He marched in like a bundled-up Stormtrooper dressed completely in black, hood up, “Wildcat Snowmaking” in bright white reflective lettering on the back of his jacket. At the time, Patrick was the Wildcat mountain operations manager and deep in 24/7 snowmaking mode, trying to get 100 percent open for the holidays.
We started dating that winter. As a former professional snowboarder who had competed in the X Games, I knew skiing—but I had no idea what went into making skiing possible until I started seeing someone who works in ski area operations: weeks when you hear, but rarely see, your partner leave and come home; nights when you wake up at 3:30 a.m. to find their side of the bed cold because they had to rush in to work to fix a snowcat that broke down on the hill; the constant weather obsession.
It was then that I became a winter widow, a role I’ve embraced through marraige, childrearing, my own career, and a move to Sugarbush Resort, Vt., where Patrick took up the position of VP of mountain ops and recreational services.
Welcome to Winter Widowhood
For those unfamiliar with this seasonal situation, let me paint you a picture: from November 1 through mid-April (sometimes stretching into May), you essentially become the primary manager of home and life logistics while your partner’s time is consumed by the daily workings of the mountain.
It was during one particularly brutal February week, when Patrick had essentially vanished into snowmaking operations, that I discovered I wasn’t alone in this experience. My friend Kara Young, whose husband works at Mad River Glen, Vt., was living the same parallel reality. While Patrick was buried in snowmaking and mountain operations, Kara’s husband Ry, MRG’s marketing and events manager, was navigating the unique pressures of being the face and voice of a mountain co-op whose members have very strong opinions about everything from lift technology to board sports.
Meeting Kara led to the realization that there’s an entire community of us. Partners of all walks of life, genders, and family structures find themselves in this seasonally solo mode. Winter widowhood spans across all ski area operations—snowmaking, grooming, lifts, patrol, marketing, food and beverage, and everything in between—but the experience has universal elements that bind us together. We swap stories in the base lodge, text each other during storms, and nod knowingly when someone mentions their spouse has been at the mountain for 72 hours straight.
Most of us aren’t just sitting around knitting scarves and waiting for ski season to end, either (though that sounds AMAZING!). Both Kara and I—and many other winter widows—have impressive careers of our own. So, we are juggling professional demands and managing households and children, which makes the winter widow experience even more complex. It requires a special kind of multitasking mastery.
The Winter Widow Survival Kit
Through years of experience and countless conversations with fellow winter widows, we’ve developed our survival strategies:
1. Master the Art of Solo Everything
Grocery shopping, holiday preparations, family events, home maintenance, pet care, and social obligations—congratulations, you’re now a one-person army. Your dinner plans are always tentative, and “I’ll be home by 7” translates to “anywhere between 7 p.m. and 7 a.m.” The bright side? You become incredibly efficient and never have to compromise on what to watch on Netflix.
2. Learn the Emergency Contact Hierarchy
Mountain radio (which they religiously leave plugged in at home, where it serenades you with 2 a.m. groomer chatter about corduroy patterns), cell phone (dead battery, obviously), lodge landline (perpetually busy or answered by someone who has no idea where your spouse is), that one co-worker who actually texts back, and finally, sending up smoke signals. In that order. Master this hierarchy early, because “I’ll call you back” in ski industry speak means “maybe by Thursday.”
3. Bring Snacks
You’ll find yourself packing midnight snacks for snowmakers, delivering coffee to grooming crews, and hauling full holiday dinners to the mountain. Because apparently, “I’ll grab something at the lodge” translates to “I’ll survive on stale coffee and cafeteria french fries.” Kara has perfected the art of turning her husband’s on-mountain office into a personal supply depot, stocked with extra mittens, granola bars, dry socks, and emergency hand warmers.
Pro tip: invest in good thermal containers to keep the coffee hot, and learn to decode your spouse’s mountain radio (left on at home at an obnoxious volume) so you can track them down when it’s time for a midnight snack delivery.
4. Weather = Mood Ring
Once you understand how different weather affects mountain operations, you’ll obsessively check multiple weather apps—not for your own plans, but to predict your spouse’s mood and availability. A storm forecast means they’re already mentally at the mountain for the next 72 hours straight. A warm spell means stressed-out snowmakers and panicked marketing teams trying to spin brown webcam footage. You’ll learn to gauge whether your spouse will be grinning, grimacing, or completely MIA based entirely on what’s coming down (or not coming down) from the sky.
5. Perfect Your “Ski Industry Spouse” Explanation
“Where’s your [husband, wife, partner] tonight?” becomes a question you field constantly. Develop a repertoire of responses ranging from the honest (“Making snow so you can ski tomorrow”) to the creative (“Communing with the mountain spirits”).
6. Master Strategic Life Planning
Here’s something non-ski industry families might not understand: we literally plan major life events around ski season. Planning a wedding? It’s not happening between Thanksgiving and Easter. Need major surgery? Schedule it for May through October.
Our son Rad was born as planned in April 2021—though April was still challenging at the tail end of a good ski season. Now, at four years old, Rad and Kara’s son Rip tear up the trails and session the park together! The two of them are besties on and off the mountain—winter widow kids form their own special bonds.
6.5. Find Your People
Winter widowhood is better with friends who get it. Other ski industry spouses become your emergency contacts, your kid-swap partners, and the only people who won’t judge you for coordinating playdates based on which mountain is getting dumped on this weekend.
7. Embrace Virtual Communication
A quick FaceTime from home while your partner is in the middle of a long shift keeps the family connected. Text photos of the kids in mid-snowball fight or with hot-chocolate mustaches. Even if you don’t get a response, you know it brought a smile to their face.
8. Master the Mountain Ecosystem
The daycare staff become your co-parents, lift operators become your babysitters during quick runs, and the lodge staff become your extended family. As Kara learned, if you want face time (rather than FaceTime) with your partner, get a table at the base lodge and order fries. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are the only (semi-) guaranteed rendezvous points.
9. Brace for Spring Rehabilitation
Come April, there’s an adjustment period. Suddenly, your spouse is home for dinner, available for weekend plans, and actually answers their phone. It’s like getting a new roommate who happens to be the person you married. You both have to remember how to share decision-making, coordinate schedules, and split household duties.
But by October, when they start getting that familiar gleam in their eye and begin obsessively checking long-range weather forecasts, you know it’s time to dust off your winter widow survival skills once again.
The Unsung Heroes
Rad and Dad enjoy a hug during a mid-winter on-mountain rendezvous.While our spouses are the visible heroes keeping the mountains running, we winter widows are the invisible support system that keeps life from going off the rails while they’re living on mountain time. We’re the ones ensuring they eat something other than convenience store hot dogs and that someone remembers to pay the bills. We know that a 4 a.m. text saying, “beautiful corduroy on Exhibition today” also means “thinking of you,” that a two-hour conversation about snow science can be romantic, that sometimes the best Valentine’s Day gift is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep, and that off-season is really “our season.”
Don’t get me wrong, this life isn’t all sacrifice and single-handedness. There’s something magical about being married to someone whose work directly creates joy for thousands of people. You get to witness the pure exhaustion and satisfaction on their face after a big storm when everything went perfectly. You understand the intricate ballet of snowmaking, grooming, communication, and overall mountain operations that most skiers never see.
And let’s be honest, all winter you know exactly what your plans are—”What are you doing this weekend?” “Going to the mountain!” There’s always live music, fun events and competitions, chances to dust off the 1970s ski suit—and you get to be part of this special community full of mountain characters.
An Indispensable Role
To my fellow winter widows: You make the mountain magic possible and ensure ski families can exist. Whether you’re raising toddlers, pursuing your own career ambitions, or both, you deserve recognition for the juggling act you perform every winter when skiing becomes a professional calling that consumes entire seasons.
To everyone else: The next time you enjoy a perfect day at your chosen ski area, remember there’s a group of winter widows somewhere supporting the people who made your day possible.
And to our ski industry spouses: We love you, we’re proud of you, and yes, we’ll always deliver snacks to the mountain. Just don’t expect us to pause that new TV series we started three weeks ago—you’ve been “almost home” since Thanksgiving, and some of us have already watched the finale twice.
When the lifts finally stop spinning in the spring, when the last of the snow melts and normal schedules return, we’ll be the first ones to hand you a beer and say, “Welcome home.” Because that’s what winter widows do—we hold it all together so that others can experience the magic of winter.
Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to go check the weather forecast. Again.
Shannon is a veteran winter widow, a freelance writer, and a reformed competitive snowboarder whose ski industry blood runs so deep she was practically born in a lift shack. Kara is a native Vermonter, seasoned cheese-industry marketer, freelance writer, and reluctant lifelong skier who can still hear her dad yelling “Bend your knees!” every time she steps off a lift. They can be reached via mountain radio, weather permitting.
