This New Hampshire Ski Destination Has More Vertical Feet Than Jackson Hole or Aspen—but There’s One Catch

I grew up about 100 yards from the New Hampshire border in Massachusetts, so to me it was always one of those borders which felt more imaginary than real. My family does much of our shopping in (“tax free”) New Hampshire, my siblings and I went to high school in New Hampshire, my father has volunteered as a ski patroller in New Hampshire for almost 25 years, I’ve hiked much of the White Mountains many times over, and I grew up spending most winter weekends training as a downhill ski racer in New Hampshire. Still, a few weeks ago when I drove to the White Mountains to participate in a AIARE Level 1 avalanche safety course with Northeast Mountaineering—surely something hardy and outdoorsy enough where I could pass for a local—I knew to introduce myself as “Todd from Massachusetts.”

Granite Staters will never see me as one of their own. To them, the border is very real.

That’s because New Hampshire is a proud state—the “Live Free or Die” state—and people there are uniquely connected to the landscape. When Franconia, New Hampshire’s “Old Man of the Mountain” collapsed in 2003, visitors from far and wide visited its former site to pay respects and lay flowers for the granite ledge formation which still adorns the state’s license plates, highway signs and official state quarter. Ask any resident in any part of the state which direction Mount Washington is in, and they will invariably be able to point towards it like a compass. As the tallest mountain in the northeast, Washington is the state’s most prominent peak, the epicenter of its mythology, and the beating heart of the state’s tourism industry.

The Abenaki people avoided the mountain’s elevations above tree line, believing them to be inhabited by deities; today you can reach the peak by driving up a 7.6-mile toll road. Generally speaking, Mount Washington is for most of the year a very accessible mountain. There are countless approaches to the summit during the warmer months, whether visitors choose to drive up the Auto Road, ride the Cog Railway, or hike any of the numerous hiking trails. During the winter, however, it becomes a thrill-seeker’s paradise. When there is snow here, the trails choke with backcountry skiers, snowshoers, and ice climbers.

What most people don’t know is that Mount Washington has more vertical drop than many of the west’s highest ski resorts, including Jackson Hole and Aspen. From the summit (6,288 feet) down to the Pinkham Notch Visitors Center (2,032 feet) where most people park, the mountain offers 4,256 feet of terrain. There’s just one catch: there’s no ski resort here, so if it’s winter thrills you’re after, you’ll have to climb, ski or snowshoe your way up.

First skied in 1899, the mountain has a rich tradition of winter sports. In 1914, John Apperson of Schenectady, New York was the first to ski Tuckerman Ravine, an enormous glacial cirque just beneath the summit, earning the mountain the unofficial nickname of the birthplace of extreme skiing in America. For over a century since, a springtime pilgrimage to brave the steep slopes of “Tuck’s” has been a major bucket list excursion for locals and visitors alike. Other notable areas include the picturesque Lion Head, the menacingly named Gulf of Slides, and the gentle descents-only John Sherburne “Sherbie” Ski Trail.

For those who claim that eastern ski slopes are too icy and that only the western mountains have powder, there is a whole community of backcountry skiers here who would beg to differ. If you aren’t finding powder in New Hampshire, it’s because you aren’t looking hard enough. If you like things to be handed to you, find a seat on the chairlift at Aspen; if you want to earn your turns and find an adventurous sense of accomplishment, set your sights on backcountry spots like the Whites.

After a lifetime of ski racing and seeking my thrills within resorts around the world, it’s exploring untracked out-of-bounds terrain that resonates with me now. And I’m not alone—by every measure, backcountry skiing has undergone nothing short of a renaissance in recent years, especially during the pandemic.

With the rise in backcountry skiers, however, there has not necessarily been a simultaneous rise in responsibility. I would be remiss to sing Mount Washington’s praises without mentioning the hazards. There have been 16 recorded avalanche deaths on Mount Washington, and many more accidents stemming from lack of preparation or regard for safety. This is not resort skiing, so it should go without saying that when you’re here, nobody is looking out for you. There’s no lodge for hot cocoa, no ticket office to provide directions, and no ski patrol in case you take a tumble—just you, your wits, and the wilderness.

This is partially why I enrolled in the aforementioned avalanche safety class. For three days, we learned about buried surface hoar, how to read avalanche forecasts, and the hundred other conditions which can make backcountry skiing unsafe. I learned that stepping foot onto a place like Mount Washington with the intent of skiing is less of a bucket list item, less of a “do it for the Instagram” experience, and more of a reward for hours and hours of careful research, planning, and—above all—listening to locals.

In my group, for instance, was a local Search and Rescue volunteer looking to brush up on her skills. On the last day of our course, as we dug some test columns and measured the snow’s structural integrity, she recounted how many of the accidents she had witnessed on Mount Washington, and in the Presidential Range generally, were caused by out-of-staters with no regard for how quickly things can become dangerous.

“We know these aren’t the Rockies, but that doesn’t mean things can’t go wrong,” she said. “I would so much rather have a tourist ask me for directions or about snow conditions in the morning than have to go on a body recovery mission in the afternoon.”

If you’re looking to play in the backcountry, I would deeply suggest taking an AIARE Level 1 course. They’re everywhere. I booked mine on 57hours.com. Yes, you’ll learn about how to look for warning signs in the backcountry. But more importantly, you’ll connect with locals who have lived in the shadow of these mountains long before you came into their state, and long after you’ll leave.

And when it comes to actually planning your trip, I would suggest anyone looking to explore Mount Washington—or any backcountry destination—deploy the same principles I practice when traveling there: leaving no trace in the outdoors, putting safety before all else, and, even when difficult, exercising the grace of deferring to locals for any of the thousand questions you, too, will have when visiting there. Because even if you think you know the trails and you’ve visited countless times before, there will always be a level of knowledge that only they can help you reach.