

Ski to Tee
Obituary
Our beloved husband, father, brother, and friend, Craig Michael Spooner, 75, passed away on June 19, 2026, after a brief yet courageous battle with heart failure. He was born in Worcester, Massachusetts, the oldest of three brothers, the son of Norton and Elayne Spooner.
Craig’s love of the mountains began early, on a pair of skis his father first strapped to his feet. The two of them carved turns through New England winters and, when the snow gave way, played a little golf together — a passion that led Craig to become a caddy at a local club at the age of twelve. These were the two pursuits that would shape the rest of his life. Craig grew up and was educated in Massachusetts, graduating from St. John’s High School and Assumption College with a degree in political science.
Craig first taught skiing at Wachusett Mountain in Westminster, Massachusetts. But it was a magazine that changed the course of his life. As a young man fresh out of college, Craig read about a brand-new ski resort rising in the mountains of Utah — Snowbird — and decided he simply had to see it for himself. He pointed his car west on a road trip to get a firsthand look. He never went back. Craig fell in love with that mountain the instant he laid eyes on it, and Little Cottonwood Canyon became his home for the rest of his life.
He became one of a small group of the earliest ski instructors Snowbird ever employed — the beginning of a remarkable career that would span more than fifty years. Over those decades, Craig taught thousands of students to love the sport the way he did. Fun, entertaining, endlessly patient, and genuinely caring, he was the kind of instructor people requested by name and remembered for a lifetime. In the summers, he traded his skis for a tool belt as a skilled finish carpenter, and never passed up a chance to get out on the golf course, where he remained a devoted recreational golfer.
It was at Snowbird, in the ski school where they both worked, that Craig met the love of his life, Stacy. They married in 1985 and built a family together with their two daughters, Whitney and Kendra.
Anyone who met Craig encountered the exterior first: sarcastic, caustic, honest to a fault, and refreshingly in-your-face. But that was only the outermost layer of an endless riddle — Craig was a perpetual “layered onion,” and that prickly surface only barely masked what lay beneath it: a sharp intellect, genuine insight, and a deep caring for the plight of the world. He was endlessly interested in humanity and forever turning over the question of how to make the world a better place.
And yet he was pragmatic enough to know where he could actually answer it — not in grand gestures, but in the simple, profound work of bringing joy and accomplishment to others. He did it mostly through the outdoors: teaching countless people to love skiing, and (informally, invited or not) golf, always with a teacher’s critical eye for how someone could improve. And he did it by being an easy, effortless friend to more people than anyone could count.
Many — perhaps most — of these friends were certain, at first, that Craig wasn’t particularly interested in them, only to discover that he’d been listening all along, quietly absorbing the details of their lives and their hopes for themselves, and would then “shock” them by revealing just how much he cared about the depth and texture of their experiences and their happiness. Nothing brought him greater joy than knowing his presence in someone’s life had left them happier, prouder, and more capable than he’d found them.
Craig is survived by his wife, Stacy; his daughters, Whitney (married to Tyler Aikens) and Kendra (married to Dave Wojczynski); and his brothers, Kevin and Todd. He was preceded in death by his parents, Norton and Elayne.
Above all, though, Craig loved his family, and he said so endlessly. Stacy, Whitney, and Kendra were the great joys of his life, and they were never far from his thoughts — when he wasn’t with them, he was talking about them. Anyone who shared a chairlift or a golf cart with Craig came away knowing all about his three girls. And it was, perhaps, the most telling thing about him: for all the gruff exterior, the man was, in truth, a giant, lovable teddy bear of a man.
Scholarship Fund
In lieu of flowers, donations in Craig’s name may be made to the newly established Spooner Memorial Mountain School Scholarship Fund. Created as a lasting tribute to a man who spent more than fifty years inspiring others, the fund has been embraced by Snowbird Mountain School as a permanent institution.
Each year, it will honor one of the mountain’s most dedicated instructors or guides as they continue to pursue the highest levels of mastery in their craft. Each recipient’s name will be engraved on a permanent plaque, ensuring that Craig’s legacy — and his enduring belief in the art of teaching and connecting on the snow — remains a visible and meaningful presence on the mountain for generations to come.
Donate to the Spooner Memorial Mountain School Scholarship Fund — https://gofund.me/3f903bec4
Gallery
Videos
Memory wall
I only had the privilege of knowing Craig for about a year. But Spooner had a way of making a one-year friendship feel like twenty. Mostly by treating you the same way he'd treat someone he'd known for twenty. Half open-hearted affection, half ruthless roasting.
He always skipped the small talk and went straight to the part where he acted like you had been annoying him lovingly for decades.
This past February, he invited me to be his guest at his club at Snowbird. Which was super generous. I should mention up front: I am not a great skier. Spooner knew this.
Our day just happened to be one of those heavy snow, zero visibility days, the kind of conditions where you genuinely cannot tell up from down. I have since learned the real term is “the soup.” And, I was lost in it. Spooner announced, without any apparent concern, that these were the worst conditions he had ever skied in. He then proceeded to ski them perfectly.
I, meanwhile, couldn't see the snow, the trees, my own skis, or even Spooner. But out of the white came his voice: “You alright back there?”
For the next hour, Spooner guided me down that mountain using a system I can only describe as love-by-insult. He'd materialize out of the whiteout to inform me that my form was the worst he'd ever seen. He'd tell me which direction was downhill, because I genuinely did not know. He'd ski thirty feet ahead, stop, and bark something both encouraging and devastating over his shoulder. Something like, “I’m glad you didn't get hurt, I just don't want to fill out any paperwork for the safety patrol.”
He kept me close, he kept me upright, and he kept me laughing and I forgot to be nervous. He told me to rest. He told me to go. He somehow knew when I needed both. He made me feel safe without ever making me feel fragile.
We came off the mountain in one piece. A fact I credit entirely to him, and which he would never let me credit entirely to him, because then he couldn't make fun of me about it.
The next day, naturally, everyone got the full review. The form notes. The directional confusion. My face, which he described, in detail to multiple people. I have never been so thoroughly roasted by someone who was, at the same time, so plainly glad I was okay. And somewhere in the middle of the roast, casually, almost as an aside, he mentioned how proud he was that I'd stayed with it. Then immediately went back to the bit about my face. That was the trick of him. You'd get the real thing, the kind sentence that mattered, slipped in between two insults so you almost missed it. Almost.
That was Spooner. He took care of you and then made sure you knew you needed taking care of. He'd insult your skiing and then, in the same breath, tell someone else you'd stuck it out in conditions that would have sent most people to the lodge. He'd pretend not to be paying attention and then, he was by your side.
He noticed more than he let on. He cared more than he announced. And maybe that made it mean even more.
A year wasn't nearly enough. But a day in the soup with the Spoon was the kind of day that tells you everything you need to know about a person, and everything you'd want to remember about a friend.
Me: What am I doing wrong?
Spooner: Not turning it!
I was terrified of Spooner for my first several years in 7S, but soon came to see the kindness beneath that crusty exterior. He could tell when I felt tentative on low viz mornings or starting back after surgery, looked out for me and never made me feel like I shouldn’t be there. He made me feel seen, and appreciated. I will really miss him
Service
Craig’s life will be celebrated — and it will truly be a celebration — in the Golden Cliff & Eagle’s Nest space located on lower level L1 at The Cliff Lodge at Snowbird on Wednesday, July 8, 2026, from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. Join us for food, drink, and socializing beginning at 5:00, with an informal program of spoken memories and tributes to Craig from 6:15 to 7:00 p.m. All who knew and loved Craig are welcome.
We also warmly invite you to share a favorite story, memory, or a few words about what Craig meant to you. We would love to gather these and celebrate, together, the joy he brought to so many — they will become special and lasting memories for the family.
If you have photographs of Craig that you’d like included in a slideshow during the celebration, we would love to receive them as well.
Kindly use the forms below to RSVP (so we can plan food and drink accordingly). Also share your memories and tributes, and upload your favorite photos.
9320 Cliff Lodge Dr, Snowbird, UT 84092, USA
5:00pm to 7:00pm

