A Life Shaped by Mountains.

Alone, at the top of a hill that gave me battle scars, snow falling, mom’s voice echoing across the neighborhood -

"Shawn, get home - it's dark out!", she yelled.
"Just one last run!", I replied.

Determined to squeeze in one last try, it was this last run when something clicked - instead of straight-lining like I had for weeks, for the first time I managed to link several consecutive turns and effortlessly surfed and floated down the entire powder covered hill.

I stood at the bottom, proud and electric, a wooden dynamo strapped to my feet, lit by the glow of a ski resort that hadn’t yet made peace with snowboarders. As if the snow, the board, and my surroundings had woven into a tapestry of rebellion and liberation. It should have been pure adrenaline and joy, and mostly it was—but there was something else in it, too. Snowboarding was still new, still strange, and no one I knew really understood why it mattered to me. They called it a fad. I stood there wishing I could share the moment with someone who got it. Even at twelve, I knew better. This party was just getting started.

The achievement faded fast. What lingered was the wonder, the quiet sense that I’d found my place. Since that last run, I’ve been on a mission—snowboarding there through thick and thin, there when friends and family weren’t, shaping my life in ways I didn’t yet know how to name.

After that night in 1984, I was hooked. I soon graduated to snowboarding at local hills and golf courses, including the old infamous Playboy Club, and even poached the ski trails at Vernon Valley (later Mountain Creek)—a full two years before the resort officially allowed snowboarding.

Now, 40 years later, I think back to that night in 1984—just a kid, grinning ear to ear, full of hope, totally clueless about the chaos, joy, and obsession snowboarding was about to drag him into. Standing at the bottom of that hill, I didn’t know I was staring straight into the beginning of something that would shape my life.

Even now, at the end of every day on the mountain, I put superstition aside and call “last run”—a small, quiet tribute to that night in 1984—my moment of truth.

Chairlifts, Diesel Fuel, Good Times.
In the winter of 1985, snowboarding was still in its infancy, and I learned that Hidden Valley, also in New Jersey, had just started allowing snowboarders on their mountain. In December 1985, I was snowboarding by myself, trying to tackle the icy slopes Hidden Valley was known for with my wooden Burton, which, by the way, had no metal edges. This was a full year—a season and a half— before Vernon Valley opened to boards.

During the early days of that first season at Hidden Valley, I found myself among a small, unique group of two or three snowboarders on a mountain that was otherwise fully dedicated to ski racing. Outnumbered, to say the least!

Hidden Valley became our nightly playground. We weren’t all friends at first, but we shared a common bond and mutual respect—this was uncharted territory for all of us. The slopes were steep and icy, with the hard, windswept blue ice that mid-Atlantic skiers know all too well. Quite often, we would go home smelling of diesel fuel, motor oil, and hydraulic fluid. The resort did its best, but our beloved slopes were frequently victims of mechanical failures—leaks from snowmaking guns, snowcats, and even chairlifts.

Adversity aside, we had a place to ride and plenty of fun to be had. Hidden Valley is where snowboarding truly got its start in New Jersey even though other resorts (Mountain Creek) frequently make that claim to fame.

Skiers, Snowboarders, Ruffians. In the early winter of 1985, our small crew would hike up and ride the snowmaking piles at Vernon Valley Great Gorge before the lifts even opened. Snowboarding wasn’t allowed yet, but we befriended the mountain staff and did our best to convince them the sport was safe and could coexist with the skiers. Soon after, Vernon Valley (now Mountain Creek) finally opened its lifts to snowboarders—and just like that, we were in.

Those early days were as brutal as they were exhilarating. Vernon Valley was the perfect storm: skier vs. snowboarder, elite vs. ruffian, old vs. new, Taylor Ham vs. Pork Roll… it had it all. Recent documentaries about Action Park capture some of the chaos, but they barely scratch the surface of the hijinks, the characters, and the ridiculous plots that unfolded on and off the mountain.

Poaching the slopes solo in 1984 had been my very first taste of Vernon Valley—albeit trespassing—but by winter 1986, once the resort officially welcomed snowboarders, I became one of two of the earliest documented riders there. In the first few weeks of that inaugural season, I was even hired to test other snowboarders before they were granted full access to the mountain. Most resorts had programs like this, but it was wild that Vernon Valley trusted a 14-year-old with the job. It was a gig, a free ski pass, and, most importantly, a place to ride—our playground, our proving ground, and the launchpad for the New Jersey snowboarding scene.

1986–1990
In the early years, there were only a handful of snowboarders at Vernon Valley, and we stuck out like sore thumbs. Ski racers glared at us, mountain staff couldn’t decide whether they loved or hated us, and every night, “Joeys” from NYC—rental skis, baggy Cavariccis, and NY Jets or Giants Starter jackets—would try to pick fights. We were outcasts, but we held our ground, laughed as much as we could, and stayed grateful that the resort even let us ride. Vernon Valley became our chaotic, dysfunctional home away from home.

Night skiing turned the mountain into a theater of madness. Nearly a thousand kids would show up every Thursday and Friday with little supervision, skis strapped to their feet, angst in their veins, and, for some, a bottle of parents’ borrowed alcohol tucked in their backpacks. The staff running the chairlifts, lodges, and cafeterias? Mostly high schoolers themselves. The lunatics were running the asylum, and we were right in the middle of it. The air smelled of diesel, motor oil, and snow; the icy slopes rattled under our boards. It was wild, messy, exhilarating—and absolutely unforgettable.

Vernon Valley wasn’t known for its skiing terrain, but it would later be recognized for its pivotal role in snowboarding’s evolution. The early scene we built there became the foundation for a vibrant culture, and the resort eventually gained fame for its terrain parks and progressive features that drew riders from across the East Coast.

We were the original snowboarders in New Jersey, carving out our own path and shaping the sport’s early scene. Vernon Valley would go on to produce incredible talent, including 2002 Olympic Silver Medalist Danny Kass, but for us, those first days were about discovery, liberation from skiing, a touch of rebellion, and the sense of belonging to something we all believed was about to be big—though none of us knew yet just how big it would become.

Watching early snowboard videos like The Western Front (1989) hit me like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Here were guys like Terry Kidwell, Shaun Palmer, Damian Sanders—shredding massive cliffs, launching off cornices, making snowboarding look like pure madness. They were superstars to me, larger than life. These videos were filmed at Squaw Valley, far from the icy East Coast slopes I knew. The mountains, the snow, the fear of missing out—it called to me. Getting to Squaw became an obsession for an entire summer—I couldn’t wait to leave the green pastures of Jersey behind. I’d been competing on the East Coast for a few years by then, racking up wins and podium finishes in freestyle and alpine racing competitions. But at 17, with just a few hundred dollars to my name, it was time to leave the familiar behind. I headed west, ready to test myself and get this party started!

The transition from East to West felt oddly poetic. Tahoe’s peaks were bigger, steeper, lines were higher risk than anything I’d ridden—but I adapted fast, it wasn't scary, and Squaw became home, familiar. I was fortunate to pick up new sponsors almost immediately—free gear, clothing, and a modest paycheck. I was fortunate to be one of the very first American snowboarders to get picked-up and fully sponsored by Hot Snowboards, an up and coming alpine company based out of France. When the first Hot Logical snowboards landed on the shores of the US, the boards were revolutionary at the time.

Within weeks I landed a spot on the Cross M Team, after the coach at the time spotted me laying down carves at Boreal. At the bottom of a run, “Hey, kid, who are you?” he asked. I didn’t know who he was at the time—he had red hair, a huge red goatee, and for a brief second I thought it was Layne Staley from Alice in Chains - no kidding. I shrugged and responded with a Jersey swagger. “I’m Shawn. Uh… why?”

He introduced himself as Jerry, the former Burton coach who had started his own training program. “Do you race?” he asked. “Yeah, I just moved from Jersey a few weeks ago.” “Jersey???” he said, with a snicker, “Jersey?” He told me about the program, and just being considered for the team was an insane badge of honor—especially since it already included World Cup level riders like Mike Jacoby and Tara Eberhard, names I had only known from snowboard videos. A few days later, I was training with the team at Donner Summit—getting yelled at, rubbing elbows with snowboarding's who's who, and having an absolute blast while doing it. The whole experience was incredible, almost surreal, especially for a kid who had just landed off the boat from Jersey.

My time on the team was short—four or five months—but Jerry left an impression that’s stuck with me ever since. He taught a few simple lessons about balance points—not balancing your body, but understanding the edge of control. “The best athletes aren’t always the most gifted,” he said. Meaning, the most successful racers aren’t reckless—they know exactly how fast they can go without falling. The farther you push your balance point, the faster you go, the more often you win. I learned this lesson while training Slalom at Donner Ski Ranch. I remember that day like it was yesterday—Jerry yelling at me to go faster, every run, faster. I was humiliated, training alongside World Cup racers, still trying to prove I belonged. So I pushed, faster and faster, every run faster… until I didn’t. I clipped a gate, took out a few other gates, and fell. He walked over, thinking I was about to be chastised, he looked me in the eye, and said simply: “Congrats—you've only been here a few days, but on your last few runs, you've been the fastest on course today—if this was race day, you won. That’s your balance point.” Simple, brutal, invaluable and I've applied this principal to many things in life ever since.

Arriving in Tahoe changed everything. A place to crash in Truckee, free snowboard gear, season passes to almost every resort in Tahoe, parties, and first chair every day—mountain life was good. Competition? I wasn’t a superstar— I wish I would have applied myself more. Several top-3 finishes in California, a top-10 at Nationals, a qualification for the U.S. Open—that was my glory. But the real reward was the mountains themselves: riding the peaks I’d only seen in videos, the endless Tahoe sky, the characters I met, the chance to chase something I loved. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I chased. Risky? Sure—moving across the country at 17—but the lessons, the mistakes, the wins, the freedom—they were priceless. I wouldn’t trade a second of it.