From Mammoth to Mini: A Ski Tale

I opened my eyes grudgingly… my bed was warm, contrasting with the air I breathed in: invigorating, crisp, and cold. But I had to get out of my cocoon. It was a school day, and I was a teacher.

As I fumbled to put on my thick wool slippers and bulky robe, I noticed a strange silence. A heavy, muted kind of quiet. Was something wrong? I parted the curtains and glanced out and saw a winter wonderland had quietly crept in overnight! The trees, the meadow, the fences were all adorned in fluffy white. I was elated. Ski time!

Darcie heading up the slope with the Sierra Nevada of California in the background! Photo by R. Atlee

You may have guessed: I’m not in Valencia, Spain. I’m in Bishop, California, my hometown nestled at the very foot of the mighty Sierra Nevada. Yes, everyone knows about California’s beaches, but it also boasts some of the highest peaks in North America. In fact, higher than anything in Spain.

Growing up in Bishop, winter meant ski days; actual official school days where we’d head to Mammoth Mountain and spend the day on the slopes. Skiing quickly became one of my favorite flying sports. There's nothing quite like carving down a wide run with nothing but wind and snow in your face.

Moving to Spain didn’t change my love for the sport. I even brought my gear with me. But I never went. Maybe I was quietly afraid of being disappointed. Spain, like California, is often stereotyped: all sun and beaches. Can it really have great skiing too?

Last week, I finally faced my unspoken fear and drove up to Valdelinares.

At first glance, it’s… well, adorable. A picture-book resort: hand-knitted scarves, thermoses of ColaCao, grandparents watching from the lodge with bocadillos instead of sandwiches. No towering gondolas. No Olympic-size lift lines. Just a humble collection of slopes, snow machines humming optimistically, and families bundled head to toe in colorful snowsuits.

Now don’t get me wrong, Mammoth Mountain is glorious. Bold, wide, wild. You spend your first hour just getting to your favorite run, and the next five getting lost and found again. There are pro snowboarders, GoPro stunts, and enough vertical drop to make your knees dizzy.

I smiled when I saw the map at Valdelinares. “That’s it?” I whispered. But something lovely happened as I clicked into my skis; I relaxed. No pressure. No proving. No getting lost in powder. Just laughter echoing through the pines and kids shouting “¡Mira mamá!” as they zipped by in joyful zigzags.

By the end of the day, my Californian legs were satisfied, my face was sun-kissed, and my heart, happy. Valdelinares didn’t need to compete with Mammoth, it just needed to be itself. A little piece of Sierra de Gúdar magic.

I skied, I smiled, I even had a bocadillo at the lodge. And as I drove home through winding mountain roads, I thought: maybe this Californian in Spain has finally found her winter wings again, just in a slightly smaller size.