Why the Empire State is America's most underappreciated ski destination

Telegraph

02-03-2025

Outside, the winter sky dazzles, not with stars, but with high-rises lit up like fireworks. On the broad streets, where hip-hop blasts, thousands of icy-eyed, caffeinated commuters surge from taxi cabs and the subway.
In a streetside dive bar posing as an Eighties underground porn shop, neon lips and slogans – 'talk dirty' and 'sexy time' – cling on, while beneath them a huddled group is dressed not for clubbing, but for après-ski. The look isn't sequin outfits, miniskirts or party shirts, but puffer jackets, patchwork knits and bobble hats.
It's one thing to spend the night before a bluebird powder day getting groggy on glühwein in a chalet. It's another entirely to revel in the seedy splendour of a Manhattan speakeasy somewhere between Times Square and Broadway.
But this is the temptation of a transatlantic ski trip to New York, as, believe it or not, this is a state with more ski resorts than any other in North America – and investment is ramping up like almost nowhere else.
Even if the Eighties vibes of a basement bar is not your bag for après-ski, it's hard to deny the absurd appeal of the Empire State in winter.
Consider 50-plus pick-and-mix resorts, the timeless Catskill and Adirondack mountains within easy reach, a sense that something unknown but wonderful is about to happen.
The post-New Year winter low season, unlike in Europe, is also splendidly charitable and an affordable time to visit the Big Apple, with hotel and restaurant prices slashed after the Christmas rush.
At the drop of a dollar, you can drink martinis, stay in a swanky Midtown hotel, then motor north after breakfast for a day trip or longer adventure in the heart of the East Coast mountains. For a skier like me it is the stuff of dreams, so that's exactly what I did last winter.
A taste of Switzerland: Hunter Mountain
I left Manhattan at 8am, and two and a half hours later was at Hunter Mountain in Upstate New York, in the land of Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle, skiing on a pine-wrapped piste so quiet it felt like the sport had just been invented. This is the old world of east coast skiing though; Hunter opened in 1959 and has maintained the small-time feel of Europe's dinkiest resorts. The sleight of hand, however, is that the mountain is now under the operation of multi-resort owner Vail Resorts.
It was the perfect Catskills ski day: the car park was eerily quiet, chairlifts whirred past empty, and snow cannons let pixie dust arches fly beneath them. When the sun fully rose, there was no ragged mountain profile like in Colorado or California, only rounded, rippling summits and legions of yellow birch, red spruce, chestnut oak and striped maple. The only real nod to being so close to New York City was a plastic, shoulder-height Statue of Liberty propped in the day lodge. In her right hand, a flaming gold torch, in her left, a copper-green pair of skis.
That night — by far and away best of all — was a stay in nearby Tannersville at Hotel Lilien, a gorgeously creaky boutique guesthouse first opened in the 1890s. I joined former model-turned-hotelier Chris at the bar to find out more about why he signed up for living there, not in a fashion capital as he might have done. 'I had it all…Paris, Milan, Tokyo, catwalks, ad shoots, TV spots,' he told me over a beer.
'But there is some sort of magic here. It's not as fancy as other towns in the Hudson Valley. There's something going on and the mountain scene is simply wow.' Afterwards, I shuffled through drifting snow to the restaurant next door for a nacho cheese fondue with barbecue chorizo – you wouldn't get that in Switzerland.
A taste of Austria: Windham Mountain Club
I had the mountain to myself again the following day, this time at neighbouring Windham Mountain Club. The name makes it sound like a private member's resort (something Americans aren't shy about), and while the twin-peaked mountain is moving towards becoming a semi-private, all-seasons resort, the good news is it remains accessible for the time being and day tickets are heavily capped.
As a result, the slopes are intentionally uncrowded, prime for racing down the double-diamond blacks and lapping the high-speed chairs and slope side lobster and mango sushi for $15 a pop – you wouldn't get that in Austria.
A taste of France: Gore Mountain
If Norman Rockwell had ever painted a New York resort, he'd have likely chosen Gore Mountain, the state's oldest and largest ski area. The expressionist lived just over the state border in Arlington, Vermont, and the resort presents an idealised view of American life in winter.
Over two days I saw this in the thick smears of white on rock, the short runs through the stark pines, the red-cheeked, clumsy families laughing and falling about on skis and sledges as if on a Christmas card. One of the best places to seek off-piste in the state, Gore is the gateway to a much larger wilderness for ski tourers too: surrounding its crinkle of snow-daubed hills, Adirondack Park can fit all five of America's biggest national parks, including Yellowstone and Yosemite.
Another lure is that Gore is one of the few resorts in North America that's owned by the state. 'It was built soon after the 1932 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid and still today every cent is pumped back into the facilities,' the resort's Julia Johnson told me.
'That's around $133 million for Warren County from Gore alone every winter. We're more than a mountain, we're a community dynamo.' This season, all that goodwill has funded the new North Creek Ski Bowl Lodge, the Hudson quad-chairlift and a bevy of state-of-the-art snowmaking systems.
The town of Bolton Landing gave me a chance to admire the Adirondacks rising softly above the silvery basin. In the pinkish après ski light, I then got pleasantly drunk at The Gem, a barbecue joint where they love smoked wings, ribs and bourbon – you wouldn't get that in France.
A day later I was back in Manhattan. Not in a sleazy speakeasy this time, but carting ski gear through the lobby of the Intercontinental New York Barclay near Grand Central. The looks from the reception desk implied it wasn't their usual check-in, but then something surprised me even more.
As I dumped my boot bag, I saw the bar had been made over into a Swiss winter chalet, with antler chandeliers, vintage ski photos, table bowls of scented pine cones and mulled cider on the menu. Who knows? Maybe Manhattan is coming round to the idea of après ski after all.
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