Snowshoe Resort: A Beautiful Place for a Meltdown

Sleeping at Snowshoe: A Case Study in Compromise

So, Snowshoe.

I’m not a skier. I have tried it several times in my life, and each time I have ended up hating the experience. People who willingly choose a sport that involves blasting down frozen slopes on sticks at high speed, with the risk of wrapping themselves around a tree or another human, give me the same wacky energy as dog breeders or higher tier MLM participants. Passionate, committed, and just a little too consumed by the hobby.

Thankfully, my husband did not choose this location for skiing. He chose it for its beauty, and without sarcasm, I can say it was stunning. The dense air and near whiteout conditions created an atmosphere that felt magical.

We stayed in the Village area in a building called Rimfire Lodge, and if I could offer you one piece of advice: don’t do it. Although it’s in the heart of the resort, by 8 a.m. the next morning we were waking up to the sound of plows building a mound of snow that nearly reached our window. The bustle is probably great for people eager to hit fresh powder at dawn, but for me, I just wanted a moment of reprieve.

Our room looked charming enough, even if the musty smell of melted snow soaking into decades of carpet was hard to ignore. The space was dated. One of the kitchen drawers was missing a knob and refused to open. The bathroom felt ancient. The shower wouldn’t fully switch from bath mode no matter how many times we coaxed it. The water never quite reached “hot,” but I typically shower in molten-lava temperatures, so take that as you will.

And then the blanket situation.

First of all, I’m a blankey girl. I need the room to be relatively cool, but I require no fewer than a comforter, a quilt, a coverlet, a duvet, and perhaps an animal pelt. Instead, they offered a top sheet and what I suspect could have been called a blanket but was more like brown paper napkin from Taco Bell. I checked the closet. Nothing. We called room service around 6 p.m. and were told they’d left for the day.

To Snowshoe’s credit, by the end of our stay, we somehow wound up with six blankets. Each day someone remembered we had asked for more, but apparently forgot they had already delivered some. This was also the extent of our housekeeping experience, since there never seemed to be a towel refresh or daily clean.

Still, a room is a room. It had a fireplace, a mattress, and four walls, the basic ingredients for survival. With those boxes checked, we managed to make it through a few days.

Off-Roading at Snowshoe, Once We Found It

Our first full day at the resort, we decided to kick around on a 4×4 through the Spruce forest. I’ll get the bad out of the way first: absolutely no one at Snowshoe seems to know where the off-roading tours actually exist. Not even a hint. The ticket info was vague at best. We asked the concierge, who confidently told us to head to Top of the World and take a shuttle.

Top of the World was empty. Not “quiet.” Empty. My husband wandered into the restaurant for intel, and the bartender, with the authority of someone who has definitely misdirected tourists before, told us we actually needed Expedition Station.

That was also wrong.

It was fine. We still found it, even if it required wandering around in the cold for thirty minutes while weaving through the kind of parking chaos that could incite violence. The team running the tour was apologetic, and once we were fitted for helmets and given safety information, we were placed in our own 4×4 and set loose into the wilds of Cheat Mountain.

The trip lasted about an hour. The halfway point took us to a firewatch tower in the middle of the Spruce forest. Calling the view “breathtaking” doesn’t quite capture it. You could barely see a mile through the rime fog, and the whole landscape felt so eerie and quiet it was like standing at the edge of the world.

Our guide also mentioned, very casually, that these Spruce trees were used to build the Wright brothers’ first aircraft because they grow so straight. I love how this forest is simultaneously “ethereal death realm” and “Home Depot lumber aisle.” Versatility.

Autumn Breeze Stables

This is truly where the ache of not having my camera came back full force. Saturday morning we headed out for horseback riding to Autumn Breeze Stables. The snow fog had lifted, the sky finally looked like it remembered it was supposed to be blue, and we even got a bit of warmth. And of course, this is when I most wanted my camera: the horses, the light through the trees, the quiet winter-morning stillness that felt almost cinematic.

Our guide, Peggy, took us on a wonderfully peaceful tour and shared pieces of a life that had clearly been touched by tragedy but held together with sheer grit. I won’t share the details, because it isn’t my story to tell, but by the end of the ride I simply respected the woman.

And there I was… with an iPhone.

God gives his toughest battles to his most emotionally fragile travelers.

The Food

Snowshoe’s food is about what I expected from an isolated amusement-park-adjacent resort: perfectly passable and aggressively overpriced. I imagine if you’ve spent the day trudging uphill in snow, sweating through your North Face, trying to decide whether you’re pizza-ing or french-frying correctly while keeping your core engaged like you’re in a hostage Pilates class, then sure — anything you eat will taste like ambrosia.

For those of us not hurling ourselves down mountains, it was fine.

But the saving grace was Appalachian Kitchen. Tucked along the main drive is a fairly unassuming entrance that leads to a dining room that, while not exactly moody or elevated, was perfectly serviceable. A little too bright, a little too simple, but nothing offensive.

The food, though?
Some of the best I’ve had in a long time.

We ordered the beef carpaccio, lamb stew, and dry-aged duck. All of it was outstanding. I wish I could say I took photos, but I didn’t want to turn my birthday dinner into a hostage situation where I rearrange plates for “lighting.” It was my birthday, after all, and there is something to be said for disconnecting and simply enjoying a meal with someone you love.

Even if the part of my brain that compulsively documents everything screamed quietly into the void. Fuuuuck.

Mist, Mountains, and a Modest Meltdown

And so… my birthday weekend ended. I didn’t quite get the experience I wanted, but I did turn another year older. In the grand scheme of things, that’s more meaningful than a stack of photos I didn’t take.

Snowshoe will still be there, and maybe next time I’ll actually remember my camera. Maybe I’ll even make a packing list like a responsible adult instead of trusting my sleep-deprived brain to operate under duress.

And who knows — by then my son might have outgrown the bedtime torture methods and moved on to something less stressful, like waterboarding.