March 29th, 2025 | by Ali Becker
All of us at Bivo love Ali’s approach to life! We recently went snowshoeing with Ali and her partner Mat when they came to visit Bivo HQ as part of their winter road trip elaborated on below. We had a blast swapping life learnings on the trail and we really admire Ali’s perspective on creating community and connections everywhere she goes. Follow along on Ali and her partner’s ongoing adventures here.
All of us at Bivo love Ali’s approach to life! We recently went snowshoeing with Ali and her partner Mat when they came to visit Bivo HQ as part of their winter road trip elaborated on below. We had a blast swapping life learnings on the trail and we really admire Ali’s perspective on creating community and connections everywhere she goes. Follow along on Ali and her partner’s ongoing adventures here.
There’s a lot to love about a day spent at the ski hill—the feeling of carving turns on snow-covered slopes, the crisp mountain air filling your lungs, the simple joy of being outside in nature. There’s the camaraderie of a day spent with friends and family or, alternatively, the solace of solo laps, gliding through the quiet of the trees, lost in thought and movement.
But this winter, I found myself looking forward to my time on the mountainside for an entirely unexpected reason—one that, to my surprise, wasn’t about catching the finest powder turns or finding the freshest stashes of snow at all.
After spending the last couple of years dodging the frigid temperatures and grey, overcast skies that settle between the British Columbia peaks we call home, my partner, Mathieu, and I decided it was time to embrace winter again. More than that, we wanted to reconnect with the magic of the season, to rediscover the love we once felt while surfing on top of the snowflakes that enveloped the mountains.
But instead of purchasing a season’s pass at our local hill and sticking to familiar runs, we dreamed bigger. We wanted to finally visit all those mystery-shrouded winter resorts we had always talked about but never made time for. The ski towns we’d heard whispers about, the powder fields buried deep in the Rockies, those places that the locals never leave because, well, why would you?
With a rough plan in mind, we picked a starting point on the West Coast of Canada and an endpoint in the East. We plotted out the resorts we were eager to visit on Google Maps, then connected the dots with winding highways and scenic backroads.
Leaving room for detours and discoveries along the way, we loaded our gear—snowboards, snowshoes, and every warm layer imaginable—into a rental Karma Campervan in Richmond, British Columbia, and set off into the mountains.
There’s a lot to love about a day spent at the ski hill—the feeling of carving turns on snow-covered slopes, the crisp mountain air filling your lungs, the simple joy of being outside in nature. There’s the camaraderie of a day spent with friends and family or, alternatively, the solace of solo laps, gliding through the quiet of the trees, lost in thought and movement.
But this winter, I found myself looking forward to my time on the mountainside for an entirely unexpected reason—one that, to my surprise, wasn’t about catching the finest powder turns or finding the freshest stashes of snow at all.
After spending the last couple of years dodging the frigid temperatures and grey, overcast skies that settle between the British Columbia peaks we call home, my partner, Mathieu, and I decided it was time to embrace winter again. More than that, we wanted to reconnect with the magic of the season, to rediscover the love we once felt while surfing on top of the snowflakes that enveloped the mountains.
But instead of purchasing a season’s pass at our local hill and sticking to familiar runs, we dreamed bigger. We wanted to finally visit all those mystery-shrouded winter resorts we had always talked about but never made time for. The ski towns we’d heard whispers about, the powder fields buried deep in the Rockies, those places that the locals never leave because, well, why would you?
With a rough plan in mind, we picked a starting point on the West Coast of Canada and an endpoint in the East. We plotted out the resorts we were eager to visit on Google Maps, then connected the dots with winding highways and scenic backroads.
Leaving room for detours and discoveries along the way, we loaded our gear—snowboards, snowshoes, and every warm layer imaginable—into a rental Karma Campervan in Richmond, British Columbia, and set off into the mountains.
Our first ski hill stop was one we had never been to before, a mountain we had only seen in photos and heard about in passing. I was feeling a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation as I strapped into my snowboard at the base. It had been at least three years since I had last ridden, and as I adjusted my bindings, a wave of self-doubt crept in.
Would I still remember how to snowboard? Would I wipe out getting off the chairlift? Would I hold up a line of impatient skiers, fumbling my way down the first run?
Pushing aside the nerves, we shuffled up to the chairlift line. As we waited, a tall man in a bright red coat slid up beside me and asked if he could join us on the chair ride up. I smiled through my hesitation and motioned for him to hop on.
“The more, the merrier,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
As we loaded onto the chair and lowered the safety bar to our laps, Mat turned to him with an easy smile and asked a simple question—one that, unbeknownst to us at the time—would become a ritual chairlift inquiry for the remainder of our trip.
Our first ski hill stop was one we had never been to before, a mountain we had only seen in photos and heard about in passing. I was feeling a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation as I strapped into my snowboard at the base. It had been at least three years since I had last ridden, and as I adjusted my bindings, a wave of self-doubt crept in.
Would I still remember how to snowboard? Would I wipe out getting off the chairlift? Would I hold up a line of impatient skiers, fumbling my way down the first run?
Pushing aside the nerves, we shuffled up to the chairlift line. As we waited, a tall man in a bright red coat slid up beside me and asked if he could join us on the chair ride up. I smiled through my hesitation and motioned for him to hop on.
“The more, the merrier,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
As we loaded onto the chair and lowered the safety bar to our laps, Mat turned to him with an easy smile and asked a simple question—one that, unbeknownst to us at the time—would become a ritual chairlift inquiry for the remainder of our trip.
That question—so ordinary, so seemingly small—became an invitation. A way to open up a moment of connection, however fleeting. To our surprise, it was all people needed to share pieces of their lives, their experiences, and the stories that had brought them to this particular lift, on this particular mountain, on this particular day.
The man in the red coat turned out to be a ski patroller who had worked at the resort for over a decade. He had seen the mountain in all conditions, had witnessed years of fresh-faced beginners and seasoned powder hounds come and go. He shared the story of how he had first fallen in love with skiing—how his father used to take him up before dawn to get the first tracks, and how those quiet mornings had instilled in him a lifelong reverence for the mountains.
“The mountains moved me and shaped me into the man I am today,” he said as he looked out across the bright white landscape, “and they continue to be the place I return to when I need to be reminded of how small I am, how connected we are and how precious this life is.”
The calm in his voice, the wisdom in his reflection and the gratitude in his words hit me right in the heart, immediately calming my nerves, shifting my perspective and bringing forward the awareness that no matter what happens on the slopes — life is good and I am lucky to be here for all of it.
That chairlift ride changed the way I thought about ski days, about the early events that shape us, the importance of spending time outside with the people we love and what we gain from connecting with the natural world in all these unique and interesting ways.
That question—so ordinary, so seemingly small—became an invitation. A way to open up a moment of connection, however fleeting. To our surprise, it was all people needed to share pieces of their lives, their experiences, and the stories that had brought them to this particular lift, on this particular mountain, on this particular day.
The man in the red coat turned out to be a ski patroller who had worked at the resort for over a decade. He had seen the mountain in all conditions, had witnessed years of fresh-faced beginners and seasoned powder hounds come and go. He shared the story of how he had first fallen in love with skiing—how his father used to take him up before dawn to get the first tracks, and how those quiet mornings had instilled in him a lifelong reverence for the mountains.
“The mountains moved me and shaped me into the man I am today,” he said as he looked out across the bright white landscape, “and they continue to be the place I return to when I need to be reminded of how small I am, how connected we are and how precious this life is.”
The calm in his voice, the wisdom in his reflection and the gratitude in his words hit me right in the heart, immediately calming my nerves, shifting my perspective and bringing forward the awareness that no matter what happens on the slopes — life is good and I am lucky to be here for all of it.
That chairlift ride changed the way I thought about ski days, about the early events that shape us, the importance of spending time outside with the people we love and what we gain from connecting with the natural world in all these unique and interesting ways.
As we moved from mountain to mountain over the next seven weeks, that one question—“How’s your day going?”—came with us everywhere we went. We asked it on nearly every chairlift ride, and it never failed to spark something meaningful.
Sometimes, the responses were lighthearted:
“Better than a day at work!” one rider grinned, swinging his skis beneath him.
Sometimes, they carried weight:
“It’s been a tough season,” a woman admitted, explaining that a recent injury had left her questioning whether she’d ever ski the same way again.
We met a father teaching his young son how to ski, a teenager riding alone for the first time, a retired couple on their annual ski road trip, a local who had been skiing the mountain since childhood and knew every hidden stash of powder — and was kind enough to tell us where they were.
If the energy wasn’t immediately electric – the conversation became a conduit for a positive charge. But mostly everyone was stoked because they were at the ski hill —- exactly where they wanted to be. And when you ask someone about their day in a place they love, you open the door for something real — and the curiosity and enthusiasm is often reciprocated.
And although these interactions are short lived, they often go well beyond the surface to what one might call “level three conversations” — the kind which allow for a sort of openness and vulnerability that we often withhold from those we see regularly, or those we might see again.
This authentic connection has the potential to fill the cup of everyone involved, even spilling over to positively impact anyone who comes in contact with the afterglow of these good vibrations.
By the end of our trip, I realized that my favorite moments hadn’t necessarily been the ones spent riding down perfect runs or floating through untouched powder — although those were pretty great, too.
I was moved, altered and inspired by the time spent sitting side by side with strangers, suspended in midair, sandwiched into a snowcat, or standing in line at the base of a busy mountain — swapping stories and smiles and stoked energy with one another.
Skiing and snowboarding have always been about more than just the sport. They’re about the people, the shared experience, the laughter on the lifts, the knowing nods from one rider to another at the base of a great run. They’re about connection.
We came into this trip searching for a renewed love for winter, and we found it—not just in the snow and the mountains, but in the unexpected magic of chairlift conversations and the profound ability they have to positively impact your day, your week — your life.
So the next time you find yourself saddled up next to a stranger – whether in the line up at the grocery store, post office, doctors office, or the chairlift – do yourself a favor — be brave, go first and ask them a simple question.
“So, how’s your day going?”
You never know what kind of story you’ll hear in return.
As we moved from mountain to mountain over the next seven weeks, that one question—“How’s your day going?”—came with us everywhere we went. We asked it on nearly every chairlift ride, and it never failed to spark something meaningful.
Sometimes, the responses were lighthearted:
“Better than a day at work!” one rider grinned, swinging his skis beneath him.
Sometimes, they carried weight:
“It’s been a tough season,” a woman admitted, explaining that a recent injury had left her questioning whether she’d ever ski the same way again.
We met a father teaching his young son how to ski, a teenager riding alone for the first time, a retired couple on their annual ski road trip, a local who had been skiing the mountain since childhood and knew every hidden stash of powder — and was kind enough to tell us where they were.
If the energy wasn’t immediately electric – the conversation became a conduit for a positive charge. But mostly everyone was stoked because they were at the ski hill —- exactly where they wanted to be. And when you ask someone about their day in a place they love, you open the door for something real — and the curiosity and enthusiasm is often reciprocated.
And although these interactions are short lived, they often go well beyond the surface to what one might call “level three conversations” — the kind which allow for a sort of openness and vulnerability that we often withhold from those we see regularly, or those we might see again.
This authentic connection has the potential to fill the cup of everyone involved, even spilling over to positively impact anyone who comes in contact with the afterglow of these good vibrations.
By the end of our trip, I realized that my favorite moments hadn’t necessarily been the ones spent riding down perfect runs or floating through untouched powder — although those were pretty great, too.
I was moved, altered and inspired by the time spent sitting side by side with strangers, suspended in midair, sandwiched into a snowcat, or standing in line at the base of a busy mountain — swapping stories and smiles and stoked energy with one another.
Skiing and snowboarding have always been about more than just the sport. They’re about the people, the shared experience, the laughter on the lifts, the knowing nods from one rider to another at the base of a great run. They’re about connection.
We came into this trip searching for a renewed love for winter, and we found it—not just in the snow and the mountains, but in the unexpected magic of chairlift conversations and the profound ability they have to positively impact your day, your week — your life.
So the next time you find yourself saddled up next to a stranger – whether in the line up at the grocery store, post office, doctors office, or the chairlift – do yourself a favor — be brave, go first and ask them a simple question.
“So, how’s your day going?”
You never know what kind of story you’ll hear in return.
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