There’s a certain era of East Coast snowboarding that some might call bygone. Maybe that’s just what happens when you abandon the crust for the fluff—head west, chase the powder. Guilty as charged. But I’ll say this: to those who’ve stayed, held on, or found their way back, the spirit is still alive and well–there’s a warmth in its stubborn persistence.

Pat Bridges and I share that connection. An East Coast lineage that predates the algorithms. I’m a product of the generation that followed in the boot tracks laid down by the likes of him. So when we found ourselves conjoining itineraries—me flying in from a few sun-dulled days in Encinitas, him straight off the transatlantic time travel from Laax—we met in Boston, rented a car, and drove up toward Stratton under the shroud of night.

Around 1 a.m., we pulled in. The kind of hour where anything you do will feel like a mistake, but a noble one. We exchanged a look that said, “Do we push it?”—and of course we did. To The Green Door, Stratton’s final frontier. The late-night staple bar with the signature jaguar-print carpet, always good for a Phish cover band and a handful of questionable decisions. The bartender, wearing a Green Door pub-patched police shirt, greeted Bridges like he’d been there last night.

Bridges’ words are literally framed on the wall there. Like a living exhibit. Meanwhile, Zeb Powell gets swarmed by every kid on the hill; Bridges gets mobbed by every snowboarder over 40 within a 10-mile radius. At one point during the weekend, I saw a guy spot Eddie Wall at Mulligan’s (a restaurant directly above The Green Door—yes, you can get gouged for dinner upstairs and pour your regrets straight into a pint glass downstairs without ever stepping outside) and lose his mind like he was meeting Springsteen. Bear hug, near-tears, the whole thing.

We’d arrived too late for the first day of Homesick—the slalom—but reports trickled in of hardpack horrors, edge catching and humbled heroes. No matter. The morning greeted us with 40-degree temps, sun overhead, and the kind of slush that whispers, you’re young again.

For me, the Ross Powers Mini Pipe will always be the event’s beating heart. A micro monument to the past. You’ve got Todd Richards landing a 720 he hasn’t touched in 15 years, poachers dropping in like it’s 1998, and the hits slowly shaping themselves into something both spontaneous sacred,  scary .Imagine a Civil War reenactment, but everyone’s high on nostalgia instead of nationalism, and the goal is to out-style your past self rather than rewrite history.

Then came Sunday. The Zebulon Rail Jam. A fog at first—hangover induced—but the sun burned through, and there I was posted with Bridges, Mike Goodwin, Jake Sullivan, and Lucas Magoon. Holding court, heckling, reminiscing, waiting for the event-within-the-event: the 40+ rail jam category. Yes, that’s real. And yes, it was incredible. Chauncey Sorenson was the obvious champ, despite a valiant effort from Eddie Wall, who I almost worried wouldn’t show up.

Frankly, Homesick could start crowning an overall weekend champ. Best of all three events. If that existed, maybe we’d see Todd Richards hop on some rails—or at least consider it. After taking pipe gold, I don’t think he even made it back on hill. Shannon Dunn, on the other hand, was still out there jibbing after putting down one of the best l pipe runs of the weekend. Legend stuff.

When the dust settled, we loaded up again and made the drive to Loon for Eastern Boarder’s Last Call. We stayed at the Mountain Club—an outdated but functional hotel that hugs the base lodge. 

Last Call is less of a contest and more of a controlled implosion. Where Homesick feels like a high school reunion with edge control, Last Call is punk rock. If East Coast snowboarding were a video game storyline, this would be the boss battle. You had to show up, and you had to show out.

Three features, three distinct vibes. First: the rollover knuckle with dual entrances. It produced the most carnage. Maybe it was stiff legs or just the sheer chaos of the thing, but I filmed every single hit. Each one felt like a lottery ticket—could be gold, could be a yard sale.

Second: the rail section. Tame, surprisingly, thanks to an unexpected dump of snow mid-event. It turned into a survival round, where riders quietly began separating themselves from the pack.

And third: the final act. The wall ride and quarter pipe. The pièce de résistance. Complete with a channel gap, It’s not enough to ride well here—you have to become somebody.

What makes Last Call essential is its unpredictability. Big televised contests feel like Mad Libs—just plug in the tricks, swap the names, and the narrative stays the same. This? This is chaos. This is character. This is snowboarders writing their own endings.

And for me, this trip back east was more than just a reunion tour. It was a full reset. A palate cleanser. A reminder of where we came from, why we still do this, and who helped make it matter in the first place. With West Coast winter waiting in the wings—bigger parks and deeper snowpacks—it felt good to unplug and reconnect with the granite-and-grit gospel of East Coast snowboarding.

Because out here, you don’t chase the perfect run. You chase the imperfect ones that still manage to be unforgettable.

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