From easy pistes to cosy cocktail bars, New York's mountain ranges are a winter wonderland with absolutely snow hassle
Ed Grenby - 17 February 2026
I once watched those Winter Olympians with envy; these days it’s pity. There the poor lycra’d-up blighters go, hurling themselves down mountains at a speed some mph beyond breakneck, faces etched grim with focus as they pursue their twin goals of shaving a nanosecond of that other guy’s time and (apparently less importantly) trying not to die today.
Me, I prefer to ski with a smile on my face. Whether it’s growing wisdom or just advancing years, I find I now rather like my slopes groomed, my lunches civilised and my ligaments still attached come close of day. So I’d been looking for a way to enjoy all the wind-in-your-hair happiness of a ski holiday without the extremes, the hassle or the faint sense of mortal peril. And I found it, suprisingly, when a visit to New York ended up with a couple of days tacked on upstate.
Just two hours’ drive north out of Manhattan, I found a no-friction nirvana in the Catskills and Adirondacks. This is skiing for people who like skiing, not suffering: slopes that are friendly rather than frightening, lift queues that don’t require an alarm clock, instructors who speak your language (literally), and resorts that feel human-sized, family-run and refreshingly unflashy.
I started in the Catskills, an easy hire-car cruise up Interstate-87, where Hunter Mountain and Windham Mountain sit like well-behaved siblings, promising fun without drama. Hunter (huntermtn.com) is the livelier of the two: a proper old-school American ski hill with wide, confidence-boosting pistes and just enough steeper terrain to keep things interesting if you fancy a test. It’s the sort of place where families spread out across the slopes, where nobody is showing off, and where you can ski all morning without once feeling as though you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.
Windham (windhammountainclub.com), a short drive away, dials things down even further – in the nicest possible way. Among impeccably groomed runs, surrounded by snow-dusted trees, I spent a happy day lapping gentle blues. In late-morning, the low winter sun catching the crystals of overnight snow so that everything seemed to glint and sparkle, I found an almost empty run, tipped the skis on edge and let them whisper – that perfect sssshhhhHHHHHhhhing sound you only ever hear on uncrowded slopes – down a hill with pine forest on either side and a clean, cold smell in the air that felt like snow, ozone and wide-open space combined. No jostling, no shouted warnings, no queue forming below. Just rhythm, light and the quiet satisfaction of a mountain doing exactly what you want it to. You don’t get that much in Europe these days – not with the crowds, and certainly not with a huddle of French folk smoking furiously at the top and bottom of every lift.
Meanwhile, the overnight was half the fun. I checked into Hotel Lilien (hotellilien.com), a small, design-led inn that somehow manages to feel both Nordic-cool and warmly Catskillian. There were fires crackling, excellent food, and even better drinks.
For something bigger – but still blissfully manageable – the next day I headed north to Gore Mountain (goremountain.com) in the Adirondacks. Gore has more terrain and longer runs, spread across a vast, forested landscape that feels properly wild, yet it retains the same approachable, unpressured feel as those Catskills resorts. You can push yourself here if you want to, but the mountain never demands it. What it offers is space: long, rolling descents, views over frozen lakes and endless trees, and that rare sensation of skiing without feeling herded.
Nearby, The Sagamore on Lake George (opalcollection.com/sagamore) provides an appropriately old-school accompaniment: a grand, historic hotel sitting on its own tiny island, wrapped in winter stillness. With the lake frozen solid and snow blanketing the grounds, it feels like stepping into a genteel American winter fantasy – all big breakfasts, cosy nooks and the sense that winter is something to be enjoyed, not endured.
And then, with almost indecent ease, it was back to the Big Apple, for the ultimate city-break bolt-on (it can work at the beginning of a ski trip, the end or both). I checked into the InterContinental Times Square (ihg.com/intercontinental) for thick-of-it Midtown thrills, and found that winter suits Manhattan. The cold sharpens the city’s edges, the light feels cleaner and everything seems to hum a little louder.
I drank cocktails, I hit musesums, I saw gigs… and I wandered through Bryant Park Winter Village (bryantpark.org), where fairy-lights, food stalls and a sweet little (free!) ice rink create a pocket of winter cheer amid the skyscrapers. It was festive without being kitsch, lively without being overwhelming: exactly the right note after a few days on the slopes.
If there were an Olympic medal for enjoying yourself, I – or possibly the beaming little ear-muffed girl on the ice alongside me, twirling about with a toffee apple – would have taken home an effortless gold.
For more information, see iloveny.com and nyctourism.com. Also note steep winter discounts on hotels and more via nyctourism.com/nyc-winter-outing
Me, I prefer to ski with a smile on my face. Whether it’s growing wisdom or just advancing years, I find I now rather like my slopes groomed, my lunches civilised and my ligaments still attached come close of day. So I’d been looking for a way to enjoy all the wind-in-your-hair happiness of a ski holiday without the extremes, the hassle or the faint sense of mortal peril. And I found it, suprisingly, when a visit to New York ended up with a couple of days tacked on upstate.
Just two hours’ drive north out of Manhattan, I found a no-friction nirvana in the Catskills and Adirondacks. This is skiing for people who like skiing, not suffering: slopes that are friendly rather than frightening, lift queues that don’t require an alarm clock, instructors who speak your language (literally), and resorts that feel human-sized, family-run and refreshingly unflashy.
I started in the Catskills, an easy hire-car cruise up Interstate-87, where Hunter Mountain and Windham Mountain sit like well-behaved siblings, promising fun without drama. Hunter (huntermtn.com) is the livelier of the two: a proper old-school American ski hill with wide, confidence-boosting pistes and just enough steeper terrain to keep things interesting if you fancy a test. It’s the sort of place where families spread out across the slopes, where nobody is showing off, and where you can ski all morning without once feeling as though you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.
Windham (windhammountainclub.com), a short drive away, dials things down even further – in the nicest possible way. Among impeccably groomed runs, surrounded by snow-dusted trees, I spent a happy day lapping gentle blues. In late-morning, the low winter sun catching the crystals of overnight snow so that everything seemed to glint and sparkle, I found an almost empty run, tipped the skis on edge and let them whisper – that perfect sssshhhhHHHHHhhhing sound you only ever hear on uncrowded slopes – down a hill with pine forest on either side and a clean, cold smell in the air that felt like snow, ozone and wide-open space combined. No jostling, no shouted warnings, no queue forming below. Just rhythm, light and the quiet satisfaction of a mountain doing exactly what you want it to. You don’t get that much in Europe these days – not with the crowds, and certainly not with a huddle of French folk smoking furiously at the top and bottom of every lift.
Meanwhile, the overnight was half the fun. I checked into Hotel Lilien (hotellilien.com), a small, design-led inn that somehow manages to feel both Nordic-cool and warmly Catskillian. There were fires crackling, excellent food, and even better drinks.
For something bigger – but still blissfully manageable – the next day I headed north to Gore Mountain (goremountain.com) in the Adirondacks. Gore has more terrain and longer runs, spread across a vast, forested landscape that feels properly wild, yet it retains the same approachable, unpressured feel as those Catskills resorts. You can push yourself here if you want to, but the mountain never demands it. What it offers is space: long, rolling descents, views over frozen lakes and endless trees, and that rare sensation of skiing without feeling herded.
Nearby, The Sagamore on Lake George (opalcollection.com/sagamore) provides an appropriately old-school accompaniment: a grand, historic hotel sitting on its own tiny island, wrapped in winter stillness. With the lake frozen solid and snow blanketing the grounds, it feels like stepping into a genteel American winter fantasy – all big breakfasts, cosy nooks and the sense that winter is something to be enjoyed, not endured.
And then, with almost indecent ease, it was back to the Big Apple, for the ultimate city-break bolt-on (it can work at the beginning of a ski trip, the end or both). I checked into the InterContinental Times Square (ihg.com/intercontinental) for thick-of-it Midtown thrills, and found that winter suits Manhattan. The cold sharpens the city’s edges, the light feels cleaner and everything seems to hum a little louder.
I drank cocktails, I hit musesums, I saw gigs… and I wandered through Bryant Park Winter Village (bryantpark.org), where fairy-lights, food stalls and a sweet little (free!) ice rink create a pocket of winter cheer amid the skyscrapers. It was festive without being kitsch, lively without being overwhelming: exactly the right note after a few days on the slopes.
If there were an Olympic medal for enjoying yourself, I – or possibly the beaming little ear-muffed girl on the ice alongside me, twirling about with a toffee apple – would have taken home an effortless gold.
For more information, see iloveny.com and nyctourism.com. Also note steep winter discounts on hotels and more via nyctourism.com/nyc-winter-outing