Just two hours from the heart of New York City, Big Boulder Park offers city-slickers like me the chance to escape the slushy streets and hit some of the best terrain parks on the East Coast.
WORDS • TAG DULUOZ | PHOTOS • SHAWN KALATUCKA
Damn it—the clock’s been ticking through molasses today. This nine-to-five is really killin’ my vibe. It’s 3:30 p.m. on a Friday in mid-January and the sun’s already setting outside my office in midtown Manhattan. My boss, Randy—the bane of my existence—keeps emailing me about some numbers I’m supposed to crunch before the weekend hits, but my mind is elsewhere.
I’m lost in daydreams of hitting rails, skiing trees and braving the East Coast chill on a chairlift. But the Greens and Adirondacks of Vermont and Upstate New York are too far for a weekend trip and New Jersey… well, c’mon, that’s just outta the question. Unless there’s another “bomb cyclone” heading my way and I can get towed behind my buddy’s car through empty city streets, or Randy suddenly decides to up my vacation day quota and I can escape to Colorado for a week-long vacation, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting out much this year…
Back to reminiscing about cold mornings at the ski hill and that oddly satisfying squeaky sound my ski boots make when I walk on cold, packed snow. I remember a friend telling me about Big Boulder Park last season, noting that it has some of the best rail gardens and jump lines on the East Coast. But that’s in the Poconos—aren’t those, like, five hours away? Let’s check Google… Oh, they’re only a two-hour drive from here? Interesting. Well, now I just gotta figure out how to get the hell out the office.
Randy strolls past my desk and waves over the sea of cubes. “See you all on Monday,” he says, apparently forgetting about those reports I owe him. This is my chance to sneak out—just gotta call a couple friends, run home, grab my gear and hit the road. But, shit, I don’t have a car. Maybe Jason will want to come—he’s got that old, but reliable Honda Civic we’ve driven through the snow before.
“Let’s go skiing this weekend. Beat the city for a couple days,” I say to Jason over the phone. “I booked a last minute condo and some lift tickets to Big Boulder. We’ll spend the same amount on shots and beers here as we would if we go skiing. Let’s do it.”
We rally the troops and book it two hours west on I-80, arriving in the Poconos by 8 p.m.—a crew of four ready to shred. Google was right, that was easy. At the condo, we’re a couple minutes drive from Big Boulder Park and the fact that we just left the big city behind us to go skiing has me giddy. The resort après party has died down, so this 18-pack of Budweiser will have to keep us sated until the daylight breaks tomorrow and we can send it across Big Boulder’s five terrain parks.
We’re moving slowly the next morning. Those Bud-heavies are still sloshing around our brains, but the lot is only half-full when we arrive at 10 a.m., a welcome sign that we’d be lapping the lift without much waiting around. The base area is buzzing with people renting equipment, converging for ski school lessons and I can see the park crew manicuring take-offs and landings just down the slope. This was the quick and dirty getaway I needed; Randy’s voice won’t pierce my thoughts this weekend.
Throughout the day, we ski through all five of Big Boulder’s terrain parks, some of the most progressive and innovative freestyle zones east of the Mississippi. The park crew knocks my socks off with their carefully crafted features—these were the die-hards that define what skiing ought to be out here. From beginner jump lines to crazy kinked rails and massive features, the parks at Big Boulder run the gamut of setups. In the distance, I swear I see the tops of the Manhattan skyline, reminding me how far away I seem, yet how close we actually are to the Big Apple.
Chatting with locals in the park, I am impressed by the commitment to freestyle skiing that seems to characterize everyone. From the groms who hike back up to repeatedly hit a feature, to experienced college kids who throw massive tricks, everybody seems to have a borderline obsession with skiing. Every day, every weekend, all winter long, these guys are shredding; it doesn’t matter the conditions, because out here, you’re not waiting around for a foot of powder, you’re making the best of what you’ve got right now.
Back in manhattan, I ponder our quick jaunt to Big Boulder Park. It wasn’t expansive; it wasn’t heart-racing, but it’s exactly what we needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life in the city. Just a couple-hour trip from the incessant buzzing of subway cars and taxicabs, we found a skiing oasis. And the après scene was second-to-none: Both nights the T-Bar at Big Boulder had a Led Zeppelin cover band playing and the place was absolutely jam-packed with people old and young. In contrast to the tidied-up look of everyone back in New York, it was a welcoming, blue-collar atmosphere and everyone was just trying to rock out. No frills; just buckets of beer and some rock‘n’roll.
In the office on Monday, Randy remembers those damn reports. I just keep replaying the epic weekend in my head, ignoring his requests. I’d rather rake jumps than work this dumb job for the rest of my life. Maybe I should quit and move to the Poconos? Nah. For now, I’ll just visit. It’s close enough.
