The Ski Haus: A Coliving Experiment

my evolving relationship with skiing and seasonal living

My relationship with skiing reveals itself in chapters, each one reflecting a different version of myself. This January marked my fifth consecutive winter migration to the mountains. As the year comes to close, I open up my gear closet to get ready, a ritual that began during the pandemic and has unfolded into something more meaningful than just racking up days on mountain.

When COVID derailed my plans in NYC in 2020, the disruption sparked an unexpected opportunity. With remote work suddenly normalized, I found myself with unprecedented freedom to reimagine where and how I lived. After landing a new job following a layoff, I left the Bay for Utah and Colorado, drawn to wide open mountain landscapes when the world felt increasingly confined. What started as a pragmatic escape has transformed into a seasonal rhythm attuned to both nature's cycles and my evolving desires.

My friend Parker and I didn’t know what we were doing and that was okay. We Airbnb’d a condo in Frisco, Colorado and invited every snow-obsessed friend we knew. At any given point we had anywhere from 4 to 12 dudes crashing at our three bedroom mountain condo. This was when I discovered the magic of skiing on weekdays. Without lines, I could ski from first chair until noon and feel like I had gotten a weekend’s worth of runs. My work schedule fit perfectly around my powder pursuits and I’d come home and work until 8 or 9pm. Coming from weekend warrior mode, this way of living felt like a luxurious life hack for a frugal young dude.

The next year I went all in. I spent most of the season staying with a local in Incline Village in Tahoe, but I also skied triple blacks at Big Sky, flopped into Corbet’s Colouir at Jackson Hole, drowned myself in pow at Aspen, and ripped at the Utah resorts too. I remember ending that season in April 2022 with some shirtless spring slush skiing at Palisades and completing a 72-mile bike ride around Lake Tahoe. I had racked up over 60 days of skiing and there were no signs of slowing down.

The 2023 ski season coincided with the start of my sabbatical and the first time I joined a ski lease. As I began going inwards more and diving headfirst into my climate newsletter and podcast projects, I experienced a type of tension for the first time. I was facing choices between multiple things that I wanted to do. In the past, skiing in the morning and then working into the night was the default because I could fit everything I wanted and needed to do into one day. The pursuit of flow pulled me while the desire to escape an unfulfilling job pushed me to be outside. I was having to choose between skiing and my own creative work that I was doing with no financial incentives. With total freedom in how to structure my days, it wasn’t as simple as trying to maximize ski days.

2024 was a continuation of this emergent understanding that I no longer needed to ski as much as possible, even when in a position to do so. The dilemma I felt between heading to the mountains or staying in to read an enthralling book was weird for me. It felt foreign to have other passions and pursuits that demanded my attention. I still enjoyed skiing, but now it was clear that I needed to make room for other things in life. I was transitioning from nomadic ski bum with an unquenchable thirst for snow to perhaps a wiser version of myself who recognizes that just because you love something, doesn’t mean you have to be immersed in it 24/7.

Looking back, I see how the pandemic had not only accelerated remote work and online learning, but also chapters of my life. I went through distinct phases where my relationship with skiing rapidly evolved. I was experiencing the phenomenon that all of our desires have finite time windows. There was a time when I wanted to ski as many days as possible. And just like the appeal of staying in hostels, that time has passed. Viewing our biggest dreams as temporal and time-bound can be disorienting because things are constantly in flux, but it can also be quite peaceful. By acknowledging that not everything needs to remain as is, I open myself up to the Buddhist concept of impermanence, the notion that everything is subject to constant change, decay, and eventually, cessation. It’s similar to Bill Perkin’s idea of “mini-deaths” in his book Die with Zero, as well as the film Past Lives. There’s a beauty in noticing the change. It allows us to attune to our desires in the present moment and act accordingly, appreciating that they may not always be with us.

That is what I mean when I say that we die many deaths in the course of our lives: The teenager in you dies, the college student in you dies, the single unattached you dies, the version of you that's a parent of an infant dies, and so on. Once each of these mini-deaths occurs, there's no going back.
- Bill Perkins

Salt Lake City 2025

After two years of joining ski leases others had organized in Tahoe, I decided to create my own version this year. I knew this might be one of my final seasons of living this way, so I wanted more agency in all aspects—from location to space to people. After skiing all over the west (and not even considering the east for obvious icy reasons), I landed on Salt Lake City, the ideal blend of great skiing, comfortable convenience, and affordable housing.

Perhaps from breaking my ankle in early 2024, which cut my season short, I started to get the itch for skiing unusually early in June. I recruited my friend Niles who also lives without a lease and we began browsing for the ideal place to stay. After years of winter visits to Salt Lake City, I had a good sense of what we wanted: spacious yet proximate to the mountains, with TJs, Costco, and a gym not too far away. We committed early, before anyone else was even thinking about their next ski season, and we felt confident that if we “built it”, people would come.

Our Airbnb was nestled in Murray, a suburban town south of SLC that’s usually quiet, unless it’s a powder day. Then, a long “red snake” of cars forms, trying to make their way up Big or Little Cottonwood Canyon. With five bedrooms, two living rooms, a ping pong table, and a driveway big enough for seven cars, this spot was a great home base for the month. An eclectic bunch came from SF, LA, NYC, and Singapore, bringing along a diverse set of work situations, from not working at all to freelancing to self-employed to working a ton. Despite our differences, we all made our rooms feel as homey as possible and were united by skiing and snowboarding.

Coliving + Skiing Together

My interest in living this way emerged from a broader curiosity about alternative lifestyles. I’ve watched countless hours of tiny house and vanlife tours on YouTube. I read Supernuclear, follow the charter city movement, and admire projects like Cabin, HF0, and Edge City. Each offers a unique vision of “the good life” with distinct philosophies, values, and norms.

While I’m interested in aspects of these projects, I’ve structured my seasonal way of living to be more aligned with nature and my hobbies. My ideal coliving setup is more like Benji’s House, the first surf house on the North Shore of Oahu, rather than spaces designed around intellectual movements, company-building, or permanent coliving. I feel like I can get my fill of idea-sharing and sense-making online, but the only way to merge skiing with community is in the physical realm.

The beauty of seasonal coliving is its rhythm—stability most of the year followed by a dedicated window for adventure. As winter approaches, spending the dark months nestled in a labyrinth of skyscrapers becomes less appealing. Nature’s cycles become the focal point to anchor to. We convene when the snow gods start sprinkling across the mountains, and part ways when we’ve gotten our fill.

I suspect that many more people would prefer seasonal coliving over being fully nomadic or living permanently with others. Always being on the road gets tiring and finding the right configuration of people and place to cohabitate seems like quite the hurdle. Seasonal coliving sidesteps these constraints by bringing people together into a temporary shared space, co-creating in an intense burst before dispersing back to our respective homes, pockets filled with memories.

On the surface, it really is as simple as getting an Airbnb with friends, but the nuances come from the distinction between living versus vacationing. The monthlong duration afforded us the time to not rush, impacting how we bought groceries, decided when to ski, and our interactions. Each person’s independence was evident in our completely different wake-up times and morning routines. It was nice to do our own thing, but in a sense, together. The individual freedom was contrasted by the collective chaos in coordinating rides up to the mountain on weekends strategically balancing parking passes, road conditions, and skier ability.

By evening, the dilemma of dancing between skiing and working had usually subsided which allowed for more mingling. With the fireplace on and a cozy playlist, we’d share stories while Theragunning and doing our respective stretching and physical therapy. I enjoyed the contrast between the ambitious mornings, directed either at work or on the mountain, and the slower evenings, rotating through TV, puzzles, board games, reading, ping pong, and hot yoga.

The structure of the Ski Haus struck the right balance between individual and collective. It was the oscillation between hermit mode in my room with my keyboard battle station and running around the house trying to find people to hang out with that felt just right.

By the end of the month, it felt like the right time to complete this snowy coliving experiment. One by one, we packed our duffel bags and loaded up our cars (or ski bags for those flying). It didn’t feel sad though, we knew that we would cross paths soon enough, and there was always next season.

Why This Matters To Me

Ski life has transformed from maximizing mountain days to something deeper—an exercise in agency itself. I view my relationship with skiing and how I’ve prioritized it every year as an expression of agency and creativity. The question I keep asking myself is: “Can I do what I want despite the constraints?”

In this case, the constraints are clear. Skiing costs money and can only be done near mountains. The challenge of finding a way to enjoy great skiing while keeping it affordable has become a game for me. I’m in pursuit of the essence—something that ski and surf bums like Yvonne Chouinard, Jimmy Chin, and William Finnegan embody. It’s not about how sick the aprés is or how luxurious the lodge looks. It’s about being immersed in the raw beauty of winter landscapes, bonding with fellow seekers, flowing in harmony between body and mountain, and rediscovering the childlike exhilaration that makes you feel truly alive.

This January reminded me of my childhood, with the Ski Haus resembling a dorm and the combined car rides and ski lifts mirroring the school bus. The common areas of our Airbnb served as gathering grounds to hang out, even for just a few minutes in between meetings. Traffic and chairlift rides provided ample time to debrief, strategize, and gossip. I rediscovered what it’s like to be a kid again—a quality becoming vital to preserve. The world is getting serious and my responsibilities are getting heavier. I have plenty of role models who exhibit exceptional levels of ambition, discipline, and wisdom. But one subtle quality consistent among them all is that they deeply enjoyed the process, which is why it’s my childlike qualities that I’m particularly keen to never lose sight of.

This is likely one of the last years I’ll live and ski this way. I’m 28, unmarried, and don’t have kids, but hopefully that will change soon—at least the age part. I feel like this is one of those rare opportunities where I’m actually deeply aware of which chapter of life I’m in and can shape it accordingly. I’m with one foot in the big kid chapter and the other in the “settling down” chapter.

I’ve told my story to enough older folks, often with kids, who remind me that it’s not possible for them to live this way anymore—and I wonder if that’s truly the case or if it’s a combination of logistical hurdles and changing desires. I suspect it’s a mix of both. Their tone is a blend of jealously, judgement, and encouragement. It’s sometimes hard for me to discern how much fun to have when I could be using my resources toward career advancement. My stance is that the wisest thing for a young person to do is to recognize their abundance of time and learn and meet great people, but also to make memories and have fun.

In the past, I consistently overvalued long hours and status symbols and undervalued wild adventures and unbounded exploration. Perhaps the sweet spot is what Joseph Campbell referred to as bliss: “Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.” I’ve always been attracted to having fun outside and living the question of what is the good life. January at the Ski Haus feels like a natural expression of myself, validating another Campbell quote, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.”

Looking Ahead

As I approach the end of six years living without a lease, I'm reflecting on what elements of this nomadic life deserve a permanent place in my future. Living seasonally has taught me to pay closer attention to my environment and act in accordance with what exists beyond me. Being in touch with the weather and my surroundings is not only good for practical planning, it also creates a connection with what philosopher David Abrams calls the “more than human world”.

There’s also a more inward element of being aware of what I want, developed simply by having to repeatedly choose where to live on shorter time scales. This ability to not only be aware of desires, but also act upon them, is something I want to continue to cultivate.

Lastly, there’s what I’ll call “functional creativity”. It’s less like fine art and more like making use of what resources I have despite constraints. Finding the right Airbnb across several parameters, creating a makeshift office in my room, and architecting my schedule to allow for skiing and work are some examples of this functional creativity.

Next season, I’d still like to do this again. A month in Salt Lake City skiing the surrounding six ski resorts offers the right balance between world-class skiing and comfortable living that can accommodate modern responsibilities. But maybe it’ll be time to revisit Jackson Hole after three years. Or I’ll simply chase the storms as they say.

The time window for this type of living is closing and I’ve made peace with that. I’m excited for this next phase of life, although the lines are blurry and the chapter beginnings and endings are fluid. If you’re younger or in a more independent chapter of life, I strongly encourage you to explore this. And by this, I’m not referring to skiing or even coliving. I’m talking about the process of figuring out how you want to live, and then doing whatever it takes to make it come to life.

We’re so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive, is what it is all about.
- Joseph Campbell