I wasn't chasing vertical feet. I was chasing mountains

When people hear that I skied more than one million vertical feet in a single season, the first question is usually:  "How many days did you ski?"  The second question is:  "Which resort did you ski?"  The answer to the second question always surprises them.  There wasn't one resort.  There were more than forty.  Across nine different states.  And every mile of the journey was traveled by road in what eventually became known as the Powder Bound Cruiser.  No airplanes. No trains. Just highways, mountain passes, and an endless pursuit of snow.

Let's be honest. A million vertical feet sounds impressive. But plenty of retired skiers, ski instructors, and mountain employees achieve that milestone every season. Many of them do it by skiing the same mountain day after day, accumulating vertical on familiar runs throughout the winter.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with that.  But my goal was different.  I wasn't trying to see how much vertical I could accumulate on a single mountain. I wanted to see how many mountains I could experience. The vertical feet became a byproduct of the adventure.

For years, most skiers followed a familiar pattern. They bought a pass to their local mountain and spent the season there.  Today, mega passes like Ikon and Epic have changed everything. Suddenly, a skier can explore dozens of world-class destinations under a single pass.  I became fascinated by that idea.  What if instead of committing to one mountain, I committed to exploring as many as possible? What if an entire winter became a road trip?  That simple question changed everything.

Every adventure needs a trusted companion. Mine was a vehicle affectionately known as the Powder Bound Cruiser.  Over the course of a single season, the Cruiser crossed mountain ranges, deserts, plains, and countless miles of interstate highways. It carried skis, gear, luggage, snacks, coffee, and more optimism than common sense.  There were early mornings. Late-night drives. White-knuckle mountain passes. Unexpected powder days. And countless moments where I found myself wondering what mountain I would wake up beneath the next morning.  The journey itself became part of the experience.

Each mountain offered something different. Some delivered deep powder. Others delivered breathtaking scenery. Some were known for steep terrain. Others for culture, history, or unforgettable ski towns.  Each stop added another chapter to the story.  What struck me most was how different every mountain felt. Different snow. Different people. Different traditions. Different personalities.  No two resorts were exactly alike.  And that diversity became one of the greatest rewards of the entire journey.

Of all the mountains I visited during my journey, Jackson Hole left the biggest impression.

There are certainly larger ski resorts, and there are mountains with more lifts or more groomed terrain, but few places deliver the combination of challenge, character, and raw mountain experience that Jackson Hole offers. From the moment you arrive in Teton Village, you can feel that this is a mountain built for serious skiers and riders.

What makes Jackson special is its vertical terrain and relentless pitch. Run after run seems to fall away beneath your skis, offering long, sustained descents that demand your attention from top to bottom. The mountain rewards strong skiing while still offering enough variety to keep every day interesting.

Then there is the scenery. The Tetons create one of the most dramatic backdrops in North America, and on a clear day the views are simply unforgettable. Combined with a vibrant ski culture, legendary powder, and a mountain that constantly challenges you to improve, Jackson Hole became my favorite stop of the entire journey.  Every skier has a mountain that keeps calling them back. For me, that mountain is Jackson Hole.

While Jackson Hole earned the title of my favorite mountain, Aspen Snowmass was the site of my biggest day on skis.  On that day, I logged an incredible 48,124 vertical feet, the highest single-day total of my entire million-foot journey.

Snowmass is uniquely suited for accumulating vertical. The mountain offers some of the longest sustained lift-served descents in Colorado, with more than 4,400 vertical feet from summit to base. Unlike many resorts where terrain is broken into shorter sections, Snowmass allows skiers to settle into long, uninterrupted runs that seem to go on forever.

What impressed me most wasn't just the vertical. It was the sheer scale of the resort. Snowmass combines expansive groomers, glades, steeps, and high-alpine terrain into one massive mountain experience. The lift system is efficient, the terrain is diverse, and the views of the Elk Mountains are spectacular.

By the end of that day, my legs were exhausted, but I remember standing at the base realizing I had skied more vertical feet in a single day than many skiers accumulate during an entire trip. It was one of those rare days where everything came together—great snow, great weather, fast lifts, and endless laps.  Even among forty-plus resorts, that day at Aspen Snowmass remains one of the highlights of the entire adventure.

Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is that skiing wasn't my full-time job.  I was remotely managing a travel and tour business throughout the season.  Phones still rang. Emails still needed answers. Clients still needed support. Business didn't stop simply because there was fresh snow in the forecast.

Learning to balance work and adventure became part of the challenge. Some days began with conference calls. Others ended with Zoom meetings from hotel rooms overlooking ski towns.

The experience reinforced something I've always believed:  You don't have to wait until retirement to pursue adventure.  Sometimes you simply need to be willing to structure your life differently.

People often assume the hardest part of skiing one million vertical feet was the skiing itself.

It wasn't.  The hardest part was showing up day after day.  There were mornings when the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. and I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. My legs were sore. I hadn't slept enough. The previous day may have ended with a long drive through a snowstorm or a late-night arrival in a hotel room. Sometimes I questioned whether another ski day was really worth it.  But goals have a funny way of revealing who we are.

The days when everything feels easy don't tell us much about ourselves. It's the days when we're tired, discouraged, or simply not in the mood that matter most. Those are the moments when discipline takes over where motivation leaves off.

What I discovered that season is that success rarely comes from a single extraordinary effort. More often, it comes from a series of ordinary decisions made consistently over time. One more early morning. One more lift ride. One more run. One more mile down the road.  That lesson extends far beyond skiing.  Whether you're building a business, pursuing a personal goal, improving your health, or simply trying to become a better version of yourself, the secret is often the same: keep showing up.  Not because you always feel like it.  Because you've decided the goal is worth it.  A million vertical feet wasn't accomplished in one incredible day. It was accomplished through hundreds of small decisions to keep moving forward, even when it would have been easier not to.

As meaningful as the skiing was, the people I met along the way may have been the greatest reward of all.  

Because I was often traveling and skiing alone, every day presented an opportunity to meet someone new. And over the course of that season, I met a remarkable collection of people from all walks of life. Some were locals who proudly shared their favorite runs and hidden corners of their home mountain. Others were fellow travelers chasing adventures of their own.  Some of those encounters lasted only a chairlift ride. Others turned into friendships that continue to this day.

A few would eventually join me on ski trips and adventures around the world. Others became social media friends who I still keep up with through Facebook and Instagram. What began as a simple conversation on a lift or in a ski lodge often became something much more meaningful.

Along the way, I was invited into homes, shared meals with strangers who quickly became friends, participated in impromptu acoustic guitar jams, and experienced the kind of hospitality that reminds you how connected people really are when they share a common passion.

What surprised me most was how often the journey inspired conversations about life itself. People wanted to know why I was doing it. We talked about goals, dreams, careers, family, and the pursuit of experiences over possessions.

In some cases, those conversations sparked change. Friends reconsidered career paths so they could spend more time doing what they loved. Others began pursuing adventures they had postponed for years. Some eventually set out on their own journeys, proving to themselves that life doesn't have to be confined to a routine.

I started the season chasing mountains.  What I found were people.  And looking back, those friendships and connections may have been the most valuable thing I brought home from the entire experience.

The biggest lesson wasn't about skiing.  It was about possibility.  Most people dramatically underestimate how much adventure can fit into a single season. We often assume extraordinary experiences require extraordinary circumstances.  But many of the best moments begin with a simple decision to say yes.  

Yes to the road trip.  

Yes to the unfamiliar mountain.  

Yes to taking the scenic route.  

Yes to chasing a storm.

One mountain became ten.  Ten became twenty.  Twenty became forty.  And before long, a million vertical feet had quietly accumulated beneath my skis.

This journey ultimately became one of the inspirations behind Powder Bound Tours.  Because the truth is, skiing has never been just about skiing.  It's about exploration.  Discovery.  Culture.

Community.  Adventure.  The mountains are simply the backdrop.  The real story is everything that happens along the way.

When the season finally ended, I had surpassed one million vertical feet.  But the number wasn't what I remembered most.  What I remembered were the mountains, the people, the roads, the storms, the sunrises, the ski towns, the conversations, and the adventures.  A million vertical feet wasn't the destination.  It was simply the path that led me there.  And if there's one lesson I carried away from the experience, it's this:  The best ski seasons aren't measured by vertical feet.

They're measured by the stories you bring home.