The judges made their decision. And what a tough decision it was. With nearly fifty entries, far more than we ever expected, our poor panel of judges had a lot of work to do. I owe them big time, I did not want to have to to make the cuts. There is no way I could have the final list less than 20 or so! The first seven here were the finalists and the rest of the entries are below. There may be a few others in the file I need to post but for now, here goes:
Why I Love This Sport by Sue Lee picture this:
a threespined stickleback hunting child of salt laden air summer fog winter sun descending a snow covered slope for the first time tangle of limbs equipment cat eye sunglasses father shaking his head slow down please
laughing, laughing
next snapshot:
dour man says sorry we didn’t tell you about this part of your job is to conduct snow surveys now you can’t drive there and it’s too far to walk or snowshoe so you’ll have to ski with 40 pounds of sampling equipment on your back do you have skis no well we can rent you some giant sequoia cathedral now take it easy coming down the trail those tracks you made going up are as slick as a toboggan run tumble tumble pick up the pieces of the sampling equipment don’t lose the data
stentorian laughter
now a series:
how hard can this be pick up a book read about it apply it light snowfall first turns in butt deep powder silent slow motion movement climb up do it again fascination exhilaration
climbing pack full of zinfandel conversation hearts URAQT big wind limbs losing snow falls down my back damn this isn’t steep enough climb it again anyhow look at my figure 8s ok so they look like 8s a 5 year old might write but at least I’m out here moving large muscle mass through space
parked on a lift watermelon jolly ranchers solving the world’s problems have you read the latest did you hear that piece on NPR I laughed so hard I almost cried now tumbling through powder fall down get up fall down get up god that was a kick in the ass my quads hurt just beat on ‘em and let’s do it again
climbing two steps rest two steps rest wind whitebark pine clark’s nutcrackers hey birdie sunscreen slathered face to the sun a sweet savory orange summit nevada desert turn around descend all mine
touring girl scout cookies damn I can’t eat those they have dairy in them your turn to cut trail gimme some of those red vines take a picture of me with the lake in the background let’s have lunch here on this porch of a deserted summer home did you bring cups for the guinness you can’t drink it out of the can what else do you have in your lunch god I wish this day would never end
all the while, laughing
why?
unadulterated, crystalline joy
Entry #2 Why I Love This Sport by Dana Dorsett As a child, it is about magic. The effervescent giddiness of altitude evokes a sense of presque-vu: In the bright, clear, mountain air almost-seen mysteries of the universe hide behind every mountain ridge, every wisp of cloud. Each snowfall paints the once-familiar world a brilliant shining white. The once-solid ground becomes a slippery frolic, made difficult to master by the distraction of a world filled with glitter- the magical iridescent flash of sunlight reflected in hexagonal crystals.
In adolescence it is about excitement- adrenaline is the hormone of youth! Carnival atmospheres of lifts & lodges recede behind the compelling bite of wind in the face and the heart stopping silence of hang-time off a cornice anticipating the punch of landing. Shouts of joy drown in the hiss of skis on snow and wind in ears. Gravity the all-powerful engine, is the instrument of speed, the thrill of flight!
As an adult it is about passion. Powder stashes, kept as jealously as lovers, are shared only grudgingly with those capable of appreciating their charms. The heady perfume of hot wax evokes fitful dreams of endless white vertical. The intense whispered promise of snow falling in trees and warm wet kisses of steps kicked in spring corn rise inexorably to the siren song of the fall line. Powerless to resist, we commit. Flushed, surrendering with racing heart and heaving breath we ravish the mountain wildly in rhythmic turns, lunging out in powerful parallels, pressing sweeping telemark caresses, again and again. Crying out in ecstasy, leaving braided tresses in our wake, each run ends in blissful sweaty exhaustion.
As a parent it is about life itself. Sharing the discovery of magic, excitement, and passion, the glint of a snowflake’s six points reflected in a child’s eye become spokes of the karma wheel, and the mystery, yet hidden, is complete.
Entry # 3 Sometimes but not always... by Heather Hanselman
Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I think my butt sticks out too far in a skirt, or my legs are a bit too short. I think I am too loud, too cocksure. Or I am too reserved or judgmental. But all of those insecurities and doubts are lifted when I am wrapped in 3-ply Gore and my feet are snug in my plastic boots. An inner glow begins to melt away those uncertainties and lift my soul out of its angst-ridden shroud, and I become a telemark skier.
With each bend of the knee, a layer is removed. Each carve makes me feel more alive. Everytime I am covered by a blanket of powder, I am reborn.
Occasionally I still have doubts, but all I have to do is think about who
I am when I make those turns to push those feelings away. I am a telemark skier.Heather.
Entry # 4 Perhaps the Silence
by David SwainJanuary 1988
I had been eating steadily for over an hour. My hunger was deep as my weariness; I felt gaunt, used up, strangely vulnerable sitting there finishing a third plate of tacos and rice. The trip had ended in acrimony as our would-be leader and the one member who should not have gone yelled and shoved each other last night by the road in Keene Valley. Nerves were frayed after six nights of brutal Adirondack cold. Our ambitious plans, to ski through Avalanche Pass to Lake Colden, climb
and ski Mt. Marcy, and then descend it to the south and ski out past Johns Brook lodge, were absurdly mismatched by poor planning, uneven abilities, and equipment failure. And the cold. Our doctor who had claimed both experience and common sense arrived at the Colden Shelter hypothermic in sodden cotton to shiver miserably for hours while the other two pursued their ambitions up Marcy and I remained, the least experienced, to take care of him for two days as my toes slowly lost feeling. The next day it reached -2 and it felt mild after 3 nights of
panic in my clammy vapor barrier and inadequate bag. After the boys returned beaten, with stories of broken ice and frozen boots, we stuck it out one last night, the coldest yet, and skied out triumphant to find that it had reached -23 in Lake Placid, a thousand feet below us. The trip was over, I thought, and by the time I realized what had been brewing between the doctor and our leader we were driving through the night in dismay to warmth, and food.February 1994
"Just go! You've spent enough time with us."
My students were floundering in the deepening snow. Wedge turns on GTs in fresh powder wasn't their idea of success on skis that night, and as the mountain emptied into the town below and the lights and lifts cut off all but the bunny slope, they caught me staring into the trees. "Hey, why don't you go ski alone before the place closes." A linesman and his unemployed buddy and I had met every week at Mt. Tom for informal lessons followed by drinking. Beer was on their minds, powder on mine.
Really, I only had a clue. "Just lean back; ski on your back foot," someone had told me. Seeing no tracks descending into the gloom, I pushed off down the modest lift-line. As I found a rhythm down the narrow alley I could no longer tell tower from tree in the vertigo of flakes. Ground fell and rose as the double fall-line lured me to the right and rushing shadows scared me left; I only heard breath and a cascade whispering over my thighs. Perhaps it was the silence, or the closeness of the growing storm; the world fell away and nothing mattered as much.
March 2001
Life had grown complex. God, my knees hurt; the wedding barely over, the book published, a dissertation threatening, planning a baby, and now the woods were growing dark and very deep with my fears and another storm. Twilight. No time. Lapping the maple glade up behind us, ducking abandoned sugar lines, hoping the crust was deep enough. Smoke slunk out our chimney into the humid storm as I steamed up the logging track for a third, a fifth, finally a sixth absurd ballet of
depthless guessing through shadows and fog and into joy.
by K. Larson Let’s start with the most obvious: The Heel. Webster calls the heel a “worthless individual” “skunk” “trickster” and “shabby, seedy or rundown.” Webster obviously never freed it. Seems like that’s the least we can do in return for bearing all the weight of our daily being: weight. . .Release. . .weight. . .Release. . . weight. . .Release. . ..
It is this sport that taught my Knees a sweet soul rhythm they never knew, and gave my Quads a crash course in lactic acid chemistry. The Butt: I associate good humor with the tele-turn; I still laugh my ass off every time I read Allen and Mike, and I’m still trying to pinch that damn penny between my cheeks.
Ironically, it’s my Stomach that takes the most abuse in this sport. It must handle the pre-trip butterflies, the anxiety of making a hut before the storm, the gripping giddiness of staring down an untracked slope, and the sad sucking sound you make when you realize too late that you’ve forgotten your skins. That’s not to mention all the home-made colon blow, acidic coffee, and countless Bloody Marys it has had to endure at altitude.
As for my Lungs, all I can do is beg for one more skin up before I collapse and the sun disappears--and then beg for another after that.
As much as I love this sport, the main reason I ski is for all the Heart-felt friendships that I’ve made or hope to make. Over three decades ago, a bearded old man, reeking of pine tar, red wine and wet wool taught me how to ski. His gear hasn’t changed much since then (my Dad still swears by his woodies and woolies) but our relationship has deepened over the years as a result of our ski outings, as has our circle of friends.
Sore Shoulders: On the way up, I’m the Trip Whiner: “Did you have to pack all those bottles of booze?” Later: I’m a hero at the hut when I open my pack, and shoulders are quickly forgotten.
On my first outing, my Face is planted so deeply in the snow that I contemplate staying there and letting it take root in the coming spring thaw. This sport teaches us the humility we often sorely lack: for every peak, there is a face plant; for every face plant, a round of cheers.
With my fingers, I probe the pit to check for sugar snow, with my Nose, I smell the fresh.
My Mouth breaks into a goofy Gilligan smile when I snap on the cable, while my Ears hear the whoops from the first descender. And my Eyes take in the vast beauty of the mountains before I push off to follow.I can’t stop my Brain: I think about skiing all the time. Is it love or sick obsession?
And finally, the Hair. . .or what’s left of it. I love this sport for bringing out the kid in us that doesn’t make it out enough in the 9 to 5. Some may seek to externally reinvent their youth through Rogaine or Silicone. I prefer to ski.
So this is why I love this sport with every drinkin’ thinkin’ stinkin’ part of me.
Entry #6 Why I Love This Sport
It was snowing hard as I parked the truck. Heavy wet flakes that stuck to everything. The trees and brush at the trailhead stood guard as I unloaded gear and the tailgate bang as I closed it seemed too loud somehow. I was alone. My wife was home in bed sleeping. She said last night that she wanted to sleep in. "You go", she said, "you could do with some time for yourself".
It was just barely light as I started out up the long climb to Strawberry lake. The trail winds along the creek for a few miles and then enters the trees for a few more. Once you clear the trees you sidehill across a 40 degree slope to the pass and climb the pass. Then you can ski the bowl.
This winter had started with a freezing rain that stuck and created a really unstable snowpack. I wondered as I skinned up the trail what the sidehill would look like. I thought that if there were tracks across I'd probably be OK. I also made a promise to myself that if it looked hinky I'd bail. The wet snow on the trail made skinning a real slog but it felt good. The woods were quiet and I was alone with my thoughts. Perfect.
The skin up the trail went quickly despite the poor snow and it seemed like I was at the foot bridge before I knew it. The bridge is a narrow high set of planks across the creek. Once you cross it you are in the deep woods on a trail that usually sees one or two ascents in a winter. When I got across I saw that there were no tracks. "Have to break trail some more", I thought. No matter. I had my pace and the phone wasn't ringing.
I kicked out of the Superloops and shoveled off a flat spot. It seemed like a good stopping point to brew up before the slog through the trees. As the little stove heated water for soup and tea I leaned back against my pack and closed my eyes. It was so quiet. I could hear the ringing in my head that is the sound of the universe, according to my Medicine Man friend, but not much else. A few sparrows flew up high and a raven hollered from the ridgetops a couple of miles away. Such a contrast from my "regular" life down below. This absence of noise seemed almost foreign. I kept my eyes closed and waited for the bubbling sound of water boiling. The pot began to boil. I took the water off and stirred it into the instant soup. I dropped a couple of tea bags in what was left. I had started to cool down some so I drug my down sweater out of my pack and put it on. Over that I put on my shell. I was very comfortable. I shoveled some more snow into a backrest and sat down to slurp my soup.
The soup tasted so good. I had a piece of cheese that I nibbled on and I drank the soup. When I finished that I sipped my tea. It tasted a little soapy due to the little accident in my pack a few days ago but it was very satisfying to sit in the snow and drink tea. I saw a little doe whitetail about 50 yards to the left. She watched me for a little while and went on about her business. She showed no fear. I leaned back against the snow pile and put my hands behind my head. I felt very peaceful and somehow I also felt really quiet inside. No screaming deadlines for today, no pressure, no expectations, just a deep slow sense of , well, quiet.
I probably sat up there for two hours. I wasn't cold or wet. I wasn't tired. I was simply being. The woods have always been like that for me. I've lived in the mountains all my life. I have always relied on the mountains and the woods for my well being. They're like a grandfather that has infinite patience for a young grandson learning whatever is at hand. In the darkest days and the brightest days of my 40 years on this planet I've always had this. In the summer I climb and hike. In the winter I ski. I can't imagine what I would do if I lived in the flatlands.
Finally I noticed that it was getting a little dim around the edges and I reluctantly looked at my watch. Wow. It was late already and I needed to get back before full dark. I reloaded my pack and hooked back up to my boards and started down. Down is quick and before too much longer I was rounding the last corner to the truck. As I cleared the trail I noticed two guys in a pickup with a couple of snowcats. They were drinking beer leaning against the truck. I got to my outfit and started to dump gear in the back and one of them said, " man that looks like a lot of work. How far up did you go?" I told him I went up to the trial head and he shook his head in amazement. "What would you do that for? You should get one of these," he said, patting the hood of his machine affectionately. "Naw", I said. "I like the work". "It's good for the soul." He looked a little puzzled but let it go at that. I got in the truck and started towards the house. It was full dark now. The snow was still falling steadily and it looked like moths in my headlights. "Guys like that have their own thing", I thought. "Not a bad thing, but different".
When I got to the house my wife was cooking some dinner. We have no children so it's just the two of us. "Nice time?" she asked. "Yeah, real nice. The best". We sat down to dinner and chatted as we ate. The whole time I just kept thinking how lucky I am.
Entry #7 "A Fiery Glimpse Of Winter" by Matt Duffy
They looked down at burnt-orange with eyes wide open. They smiled and squinted through the glare of sunlight enhanced by the cover of fresh white magic. The sky was cobalt, the snow was glowing outside the shadows and beyond that immediate burnt-orange, bright colors of autumn flared and danced in the light on the floor of the valley. Fields of deep green were surrounded by millions of trees of varied colors. The reds, those bright cherry-reds, flickered like flames at the forefront of all others.
With arms around each other, they stood and they looked out at their surroundings for moments upon moments. There was a faint tapping of droplets falling from a tree onto a leaf as snow melted slowly in the warmth of the mid-day sun. A slight breeze ebbed and flowed like a rising tide bringing with it the rustling of dried, swirling colors moving across the snow with no particular destination. Do you see what I see?
They stare into each other and the warmth flows right through them both. It's a vibrant energy, a higher power that guides them as they float back and forth in white, whipped topping as they celebrate the magical trance of powder skiing in the first snow of autumn. She moves gracefully and beautifully with rippling white waves following her every move. She passes through a view of multi-colored beauty with a look in her eyes and a smile and she proclaims "I can fly! I can fly!"
And she was. She flew freely and easily like a bird in the sky. And he flew with her. Randomly changing direction without any plan and without a decision, together they flew atop the surface with the colorful leaves blowing in the wind.
Such is their existence together and so is the sacramental first day on skis. With all the beauty, all the joy and love and laughter; it is more than it appears. It is an indescribable feeling of life within. An open-ended religious experience.
If you flip through the magazines, it would appear that backcountry skiing is nothing but bluebird skies, bottomless powder, and smiles all around. It’s not.
Sometimes, its forty degrees and raining. Sometimes, its so cold your anti-freeze turns to syrup, and the battery quits after one labored, lugubrious crank. Sometimes, you’re just too hung over to get up before noon.
But you go anyway. And you go for the same reason that you
buy a lottery ticket, or root for the Red Sox, or plant your tomatoes
in early May. You know you are setting yourself up to be let down,
but there’s just a chance that it could pay off big. Hey,
you never know.
It was that way one day last March, when the temperatures got
high into the forties on Saturday, and the sun softened the snow
up pretty good. It froze hard that night, and the next day dawned
cold and overcast. I stepped out of the door in my slippers, and
gingerly set one foot down on the snow. Pretty firm. I lifted
the other foot. The crust still held me up. Not good.
I then started a desperate mental process, running through a list of all my favorite tours, trying to come up with one that was both sheltered from the sun most of the day and at a high enough elevation to have stayed relatively cold. The only thing I came up with was Paradise Pass. Northeastern exposure to be sure, but not as much elevation as one could wish for. Still, it was all there was.
I started breakfast and hollered up the stairs. “Let’s
go! There’s turns to be had!” Lee shuffled downstairs
in her robe, squinted out the door, and frowned.
“I don’t know” she said. “The snow looks like
crap.”
“It’ll be fine on the hill” I said, trying to sound
confident. If you’re going on faith, you can’t afford
to second-guess yourself.
When we got to the mountain, we were greeted by a sound too familiar to New England skiers. Similar to the sound a plastic scraper makes when you’re clearing off your windshield after a hard frost. It’s a sort of “skritch, scritch” sound, and it is the sound of skiers on snow that, despite the best efforts of a large fleet of Pisten Bullys, is still the consistency of the stuff that collects on the inside of your freezer. It is a woebegone, doleful sound, like an oboe in a minor key. Lee frowned at me again. “That’s just under the lifts, on the west side of the hill. Wait’ll we drop over the back of the ridge.” I was lying, and we both knew it, but it would be stupid to turn around now. So we skinned up and headed out.
After a few minutes, the clank and clatter of chairs rolling over lift tower pulleys faded away, and we were free to concentrate on the stillness of the birch forest we were climbing up through. Free also to concentrate on setting our skins flat on the track. If we got our skis too much on edge, they would zip back out from under us, slicker than eels in a barrel of snot. The crust up here had a nice polished surface, from the sun hitting it just right. We stepped aside for a minute to let some fairly accomplished skiers skitter on down the hill on their butts. Lee looked at me again. “Can we turn around now?”
“Let’s just get to the ridge and look over the top. If it’s no good, we’ll go home.” I figured she was mad at me anyhow, so what was the harm in going a little farther? I had pretty much given up hope of finding decent snow, but it was nice just being in the woods. And they certainly weren’t crowded.
When we topped out, we traversed to the north a little, and coasted down a gentle grade to the lip of the bowl. There was little sun, and no wind. The forest consisted of magnificent old birches and younger beech, well spaced. The snow was deep enough to cover most of the saplings and hobblebush, making for wide-open skiing. Tentatively, I slid in a few yards and dropped a knee. For once, my instincts had paid off. The snow on Paradise Pass was still powder. And it was all ours.
We dropped, in carving effortless turns in eight inches of untouched powder. We whooped and shrieked, we high-fived and jumped up and down. We went back and did it again. And at the end of the day, utterly spent and loving life, we went home and called our friends, and told them how lame they were for staying home.
So the next time you wake up to a cold rain in the valley, or your sister wants you to come visit, or the gas company won’t bring more propane until you shovel out the tank, do not be deterred. Trust your instincts, and go to the mountains anyway. Because you never know. It might just be epic.
"How can you stand to listen to that music?" Not my mom but my darling wife. She's in the garage, where I listen to "my" music while I tune skis and fix bikes. She's talking about the Grateful Dead, asking a question I ask myself: Why do I keep returning to their songs, especially the live versions? Occluded lyrics, mistimed entrances, harmonies skidding out of control. But then there's Jerry's sweet voice, creaky as an old patroller's knees, both drum kits rolling below an arcing guitar solo, my head is floating and I'm asking myself, "How do they do that?"
She loves to ski on a bluebird day with a lodge at the base of the hill. Why walk when you can ride? She wonders how I can stand to go out in the dark, cold mornings. What's "great" about coming home so tired and sore that I swallow three Advils before I can even say hi? Sometimes I wonder myself. But I remember a moment, miles from the car, when I didn't expect it and nobody saw, when the rhythm was under my boots and I danced, and I say to myself, "How did I do that?"
By K. Larson
Let’s start with the most obvious: The Heel. Webster calls the heel a “worthless individual” “skunk” “trickster” and “shabby, seedy or rundown.” Webster obviously never freed it. Seems like that’s the least we can do in return for bearing all the weight of our daily being: weight. . .Release. . .weight. . .Release. . . weight. . .Release. . ..
It is this sport that taught my Knees a sweet soul rhythm they never knew, and gave my Quads a crash course in lactic acid chemistry. The Butt: I associate good humor with the tele-turn; I still laugh my ass off every time I read Allen and Mike, and I’m still trying to pinch that damn penny between my cheeks.
Ironically, it’s my Stomach that takes the most abuse in this sport. It must handle the pre-trip butterflies, the anxiety of making a hut before the storm, the gripping giddiness of staring down an untracked slope, and the sad sucking sound you make when you realize too late that you’ve forgotten your skins. That’s not to mention all the home-made colon blow, acidic coffee, and countless Bloody Marys it has had to endure at altitude.
As for my Lungs, all I can do is beg for one more skin up before I collapse and the sun disappears--and then beg for another after that.
As much as I love this sport, the main reason I ski is for all the Heart-felt friendships that I’ve made or hope to make. Over three decades ago, a bearded old man, reeking of pine tar, red wine and wet wool taught me how to ski. His gear hasn’t changed much since then (my Dad still swears by his woodies and woolies) but our relationship has deepened over the years as a result of our ski outings, as has our circle of friends.
Sore Shoulders: On the way up, I’m the Trip Whiner: “Did you have to pack all those bottles of booze?” Later: I’m a hero at the hut when I open my pack, and shoulders are quickly forgotten.
On my first outing, my Face is planted so deeply in the snow that I contemplate staying there and letting it take root in the coming spring thaw. This sport teaches us the humility we often sorely lack: for every peak, there is a face plant; for every face plant, a round of cheers.
With my fingers, I probe the pit to check for sugar
snow, with my Nose, I smell the fresh.
My Mouth breaks into a goofy Gilligan smile when I snap
on the cable, while my Ears hear the whoops from the first
descender. And my Eyes take in the vast beauty of the mountains
before I push off to follow.
I can’t stop my Brain: I think about skiing all the time. Is it love or sick obsession?
And finally, the Hair. . .or what’s left of it. I love this sport for bringing out the kid in us that doesn’t make it out enough in the 9 to 5. Some may seek to externally reinvent their youth through Rogaine or Silicone. I prefer to ski.
So this is why I love this sport with every drinkin’ thinkin’ stinkin’ part of me.
This is why tele skiing rules---pow days,corn days,long hikes,summiting in shorts on a spring day,ripping with your bros,late nights,early mornings,captain and red bull, new skis, air, watching a bro rip a sick line, old school, new school, old friends, new friends, Europe, Canada, Cali, Utah, Colorado, waking at 4:20 for a hike, freedom,speed, escape, nature, just being yourself in the mountains...The list goes on and on...tele skiing rules!!!!!!----F-1
By ckovago
What do I love about this sport? I think it is the solitude,
its
simplicity and challenges. The world has become a very crowded
place
and it is nearly impossible to get away from it all.
I started skiing when I was three years old in the backyard
of my
parents home. My dad would shovel out the walk in the backyard
after a
snowstorm and build a mound from which I would ski to the back
fence.
Those were some good times. When I was four, my father would take
me to
the top of Mount Wachusett. They only had T-bars back then, and
I would
have to go between my dad's legs because I was still a bit too
small. I
grew up skiing with my dad, and we skied once a week during the
evenings
for many years on that mountain.
Skiing seemed to really take off where I lived when I started
going to
high school. By the time I was in college, it was impossible to
find a
parking spot with my dad at the mountain. We turned around and
went
home. I remember that day like it was yesterday, although it was
about
fifteen years ago, and the last time I skied.....until I found
out about
telemarking. I purchased a pair of old sticks for five bucks,
bought
some bindings, a good pair of boots, borrowed some videos and
books. I
went to the kiddy slopes and learned the basic telemark and then
took
off into the woods.
I kicked, glided, skied between some trees and hit others.
Not a person
to be found, anywhere. Now that is solitude, the way it used be
when I
was only three. The challenges are endless. Just find a steeper
slope,
a longer trail or bigger trees. As for simplicity, although my
gear
still works, I upgraded to a ten dollar pair of sticks this year.
I
can't wait to test them out.
Haiku Skiing
by Anke Roth
Float, sink, rise, exhaleBeautiful thigh-deep powder
How I love this dream
Bliss on bended knee
Powder deep and crystalline
Swaying gently down
"Not long now,"
I whisper to my skis
They echo
By David Swain
January 1988
I had been eating steadily for over an hour. My hunger was
deep as my weariness; I felt gaunt, used up, strangely vulnerable
sitting there finishing a third plate of tacos and rice. The trip
had ended in acrimony as our would-be leader and the one member
who should not have gone yelled and shoved each other last night
by the road in Keene Valley. Nerves were frayed after six nights
of brutal Adirondack cold. Our ambitious plans, to ski through
Avalanche Pass to Lake Colden, climb
and ski Mt. Marcy, and then descend it to the south and ski out
past Johns Brook lodge, were absurdly mismatched by poor planning,
uneven abilities, and equipment failure. And the cold. Our doctor
who had claimed both experience and common sense arrived at the
Colden Shelter hypothermic in sodden cotton to shiver miserably
for hours while the other two pursued their ambitions up Marcy
and I remained, the least experienced, to take care of him for
two days as my toes slowly lost feeling. The next day it reached
-2 and it felt mild after 3 nights of
panic in my clammy vapor barrier and inadequate bag. After the
boys returned beaten, with stories of broken ice and frozen boots,
we stuck it out one last night, the coldest yet, and skied out
triumphant to find that it had reached -23 in Lake Placid, a thousand
feet below us. The trip was over, I thought, and by the time I
realized what had been brewing between the doctor and our leader
we were driving through the night in dismay to warmth, and food.
February 1994
"Just go! You've spent enough time with us."
My students were floundering in the deepening snow. Wedge turns on GTs in fresh powder wasn't their idea of success on skis that night, and as the mountain emptied into the town below and the lights and lifts cut off all but the bunny slope, they caught me staring into the trees. "Hey, why don't you go ski alone before the place closes." A linesman and his unemployed buddy and I had met every week at Mt. Tom for informal lessons followed by drinking. Beer was on their minds, powder on mine.
Really, I only had a clue. "Just lean back; ski on your back foot," someone had told me. Seeing no tracks descending into the gloom, I pushed off down the modest lift-line. As I found a rhythm down the narrow alley I could no longer tell tower from tree in the vertigo of flakes. Ground fell and rose as the double fall-line lured me to the right and rushing shadows scared me left; I only heard breath and a cascade whispering over my thighs. Perhaps it was the silence, or the closeness of the growing storm; the world fell away and nothing mattered as much.
March 2001
Life had grown complex. God, my knees hurt; the wedding barely
over, the book published, a dissertation threatening, planning
a baby, and now the woods were growing dark and very deep with
my fears and another storm. Twilight. No time. Lapping the maple
glade up behind us, ducking abandoned sugar lines, hoping the
crust was deep enough. Smoke slunk out our chimney into the humid
storm as I steamed up the logging track for a third, a fifth,
finally a sixth absurd ballet of
depthless guessing through shadows and fog and into joy.
By Matt Duffy
They looked down at burnt-orange with eyes wide open. They smiled and squinted through the glare of sunlight enhanced by the cover of fresh white magic. The sky was cobalt, the snow was glowing outside the shadows and beyond that immediate burnt-orange, bright colors of autumn flared and danced in the light on the floor of the valley. Fields of deep green were surrounded by millions of trees of varied colors. The reds, those bright cherry-reds, flickered like flames at the forefront of all others.
With arms around each other, they stood and they looked out at their surroundings for moments upon moments. There was a faint tapping of droplets falling from a tree onto a leaf as snow melted slowly in the warmth of the mid-day sun. A slight breeze ebbed and flowed like a rising tide bringing with it the rustling of dried, swirling colors moving across the snow with no particular destination. Do you see what I see?
They stare into each other and the warmth flows right through them both. It's a vibrant energy, a higher power that guides them as they float back and forth in white, whipped topping as they celebrate the magical trance of powder skiing in the first snow of autumn. She moves gracefully and beautifully with rippling white waves following her every move. She passes through a view of multi-colored beauty with a look in her eyes and a smile and she proclaims "I can fly! I can fly!"
And she was. She flew freely and easily like a bird in the sky. And he flew with her. Randomly changing direction without any plan and without a decision, together they flew atop the surface with the colorful leaves blowing in the wind.
Such is their existence together and so is the sacramental first day on skis. With all the beauty, all the joy and love and laughter; it is more than it appears. It is an indescribable feeling of life within. An open-ended religious experience.
By Hollie Headrick
If 10 years ago someone asked me what I would be doing today with my life my answer would never have been “oh, living in a ski town in Colorado enjoying every minute of my life”. Also consider that 10 years ago I had never skied, had never even seen more then 4 inches of snow! But this is indeed where I have literally & figuratively found myself. When I first moved to the mountains for just a season my friends laughed and told me they would be amazed if I stayed until Christmas. Even my family figured this warm weather sweet southern belle would never make it in the cold and the snow and not to mention 1800 miles away from her family. Well 6 seasons later I think they are all finally realizing that I won’t be coming “home” anytime soon.
My first season in Breckenridge ‘96/’97, what a year, I learned to snowboard and loved it. I loved the cold, I loved the snow, I loved everything I was doing and the great people I was meeting. At the end of the season I decided to stay for the summer and return to Charleston, SC in the fall. Well fall came around and I realized that just the smell of snow in the air was enough to make me want to stay on another winter. That winter I met some really cool folks who all telemarked and with whom I became good-friends with. I was so impressed with their skill and how beautiful the sport was that I knew it was what I wanted to do. At the end of the season I gave up my board for good and bought my first tele skis. I had never been on alpine skis and the first few days, OK weeks, were hilarious. So what are these poles for anyway? I would be out there with my friend and all he could do was laugh and yell UP DOWN UP. I finally took some lessons at his request! I was hooked so hooked in fact that I skied with a full arm cast my first full tele season, of course much to my orthopedics displeasure.
Three years later, three ski towns later I have found my home
and heart in Telluride and in tele skiing. I never could imagine
that I would find myself so in love with snow, with winter and
with this sport. I love it because it makes me feel free, confident,
and strong, because it is so fun. But most of all because it humbles
and challenges me. I know I will never become bored with telemarking,
there will always be new terrain to explore, new techniques to
conquer and there always be something new, funny, serious, and
exciting to talk about on Telemark Tips!
By Graham Gephart
What is telemark skiing? Telemark skiing is the original form
of skiing; it’s the use of the telemark turn, rumored to
have originated in the Telemark Region of Norway. Telemark skiing
involves the use of the telemark turn: two parts deep-knee bend,
three parts grace, coordination, and balance. Place one foot slightly
ahead of the other, bend both knees, lift both heels, and tilt
the forward knee in the opposite direction (right knee to the
left or left knee to the right). Assuming this position, holding
it, and jumping into a turn in the other direction takes tremendous
strength. Telemarking for a day is the physical equivalent of
doing several hundred deep-knee bends. Stemming from cross-country
skiing, this trademark free heel lets the skier go anywhere: uphill,
downhill, resorts, woods, glaciers.
I’ve tried all forms of snow travel, but nothing appeals
to me like telemarking. I knew from my start, nine years ago,
that telemarking was different. In a sport whose participants
are unfortunately stereotyped as “old hippies,” I am
only seventeen years old. Needless to say, I stand out from my
downhill peers by telemarking and from my fellow telemarkers by
my age. And while I enjoy skiing with my friends at local ski
resorts, I won’t hesitate to spend the day skiing with my
dad’s friends in the backcountry.
Learning to telemark well is a long process; while someone can pick up snowboarding or downhill skiing with reasonable success in a week or two, telemarking takes at least one, if not two, years. I use the same dedication I needed to learn telemarking, to continually better myself.
Two years ago, I learned exactly what freedom telemarking has
given me. I worked my way onto a ski trip with my father, which
included eight days of ski mountaineering and telemarking in the
Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia. Dropped off by helicopter
for a week at a chalet below a glacier, we climbed up to three
peaks per day, skiing up and down mountains, glaciers, and chutes.
Being the only person under the age of 35 in a group of 25 didn’t
bother me at all, but it meant that I had to prove my ability.
In proving that I could climb 6500 vertical feet per day and then
ski down 45° slopes, I learned a lot about myself physically
and mentally. My ultimate test came on the highest peak, Mount
Graham, whose name seemed to suggest that this was my mountain
to conquer. A few hundred feet below the 10,000-foot summit, muscles
exhausted and emotions drained, I felt the motivation to keep
going come entirely from within myself. Oblivious to the opinions
of the others, I had to make the summit for myself. Having come
so far under my own volition, I pushed upward to the summit of
Mount Graham, a ten-by-ten-foot ledge where I stood completely
exhilarated by the 3000-foot vertical drop surrounding me. I found
my reward in a three-hour downhill run through knee-deep powder,
skiing in a state of perfect bliss.
That winter day on Mount Graham, I learned the meaning of the
telemark saying, “Earn your turns.” But the lesson does
not stop there; in my schoolwork, personal life, and everything
else that I do, I follow the principle that harder work will always
pay off with a sense of self-satisfaction, pride in my work, and
better rewards.
Telemark skiing means more to me than just a hobby. It’s the knowledge that I am different; I have the freedom to go anywhere, the ability to stand out in a crowd, the combination of old techniques with new equipment and more daring styles, and the ethic of working for rewards. Telemark skiing is part of my lifestyle, and I apply its techniques to everything I do.
For anyone that requests advice, I can suggest only this: “Free your heels and your mind will follow.” In saying this, I do not suggest only that you take up telemark skiing; I refer to telemarking as a single part of a lifestyle and a philosophy, my lifestyle and philosophy. When you’re not afraid of hard work, you free yourself to explore, to discover, to get out. The adventures will find you, and your mind will be free to savor them.
By Mark Music
It's been an odd past few years in my ski world. After nearly
giving up the sport for lack of
excitement and inability to hand over the pre-requisite fist full
of tens and twenties for the
corduroy ski experience, I've been reborn . I was perhaps a season
away from collapse after three decades of skiing. Jean-Claude
was flying helicopters and perfecting his business 'position de
l'ouf', Franz had long ago hung up his blazing C4's, and the 'new'
slalom of linebackers and body armour had taken it's toll on the
final months of Marc Giradelli's position in alpine racing history
as the last serious all event skier. Like yellow gates and bamboo,
my heroes where gone. The memories of having had the great fortune
to
chase down the hill behind Cary Adgate, Henri Duvilliard, Bojan
Krija, Peter Popangalov, and a handful of other seemed brighter
than any future I could imagine. Sure, there were a few years
in California scaring myself silly at Squaw Valley and cruising
at Heavenly, then a shift to the Far East and the consequent amusement
of observing of how the same
physical activity can have such phenomenally different sociological
implications than those taken for granted from the ages of 3 to
30.
In Asia, I tired of explaining that I didn't feel the need to take ski proficiency tests, and that if they wanted to know my 'level', just strap'em on and follow me down. I could neither relinquish or embrace the spiritless activity that skiing had become. Even the light of the season's first snowfall languishing dull white beyond my morning window no longer worked it's magic. It was mid February 1997 before I even thought about skiing when I wandered into the local shop to replace missing and worn accessories. I was getting fat, and so were the skis. Psycodelia after a head-on with Mickey and Donald lined the racks for the cosmetically caring, but over in the retro-hard-to-get-rid-of section, I spied my salvation. Only three ten dollar bills worth of Japanese yen for an decade-old unmounted pair of first generation extremers, cut to turn quick and soft ( but did neither well in free heel mode I later learned )... In a moment of epiphany rivalling anything an Irish writer with the glasses could come up with, I asked the help if they had any telemark bindings . "Why certainly we do, and cheap too..something with three pins and a cable be O.K.?" In all of three minutes they were ordered up. Boots? Leather with some buckles on the side... alpine gear had grown hand savers decades ago, so it seemed natural that telemark gear should do the same... no big blow to tradition. The epoxy had hardly dried when I set out to hitch a ride up to the local area. That's right, I hitched... hadn't done that in a while either, but it just seemed the thing to do with all the strange new bits. 10 minutes later, I had hopped a ride with three housewives who were gleefully skipping out of the day's laundry and cooking. They'd never seen a hitch hiker, yet alone picked one up, but figured I couldn't be doing anything other than going skiing, so they reckoned it safe to stop and give their English a try.
20 kilometres of pleasantries later and we arrived. I thanked
my ride graciously, bought a lift ticket, and attached myself
to a new experience. Could it be that I was finally doing the
right thing only at the last possible moment? My dear friend Dana
had perhaps as
long as a decade before sensed my emotional decline...he had many
years past traded in his
electric yellow Langes for leather, screwed some insubstantial
looking shards of metal to a pair of beaters, freed his heels,
and never looked back. For several years he had beckoned me to
do the same. It was now time to make it so. With the first push
in the direction of the nearest lift, I toppled forward over my
tips. An ignanomous start. Once recovered, I made a few tentative
skates and wondered just what I had gotten myself into... the
last time I had worried about getting on a lift in one piece was
about 1966. Flashes of my father's knees and all the large folks
around me as I wondered if I really was big enough to get up the
T-bar ahead. The bar didn't fit the back of my neck particularly
well,
but I quickly understood that until I had a few more years under
my belt, riding with adults was going to be a tough but necessary
business if I was going to master the 250 vertical feet of mountain
ahead. Off the high speed triple and with the false confidence
of impending success, I dropped into my first telemark turn. As
I pressured my downhill ski, dropped the uphill knee and initiated
the turn, my thoughts flooded back to all the awkward teley turns
we used to negotiate on our cross country gear in the orchards
of northern lower Michigan. Ours where only infrequently successful,
but some great happy spills where made all the better by school
cancellations that magically brought with them the appropriate
conditions to launch off great drifts at the top of the neighborhood
hill. I spent my first full day on teley skis with most of my
weight on the downhill ski...fortunately the morning snow was
hard and allowed me to amuse myself with the illusion of quick
mastery. As the snow softened, my errant back ski became an incredible
nuisance. To hell with it, and
back to parallel turns, but the morning's teleys had beguiled
me with their gentle (if not stable) sensation of flight.
A few days later, having "mastered" Sondre Norhiem's
technique on the flats, I stood above my first steeper pitch.
25~30 degrees. The heart pounding wonder of standing at the top
of a slope that wouldn't have raised an eyebrow on alpine gear
had my heart rate in the chute skiing target zone. Looking at
30 degrees with doubts about the final outcome, I was again 6
years old and too short to see above the next drop until dead
atop the transition. All moguls where monstrous apparitions of
those that had perished in futile attempts to negotiate their
treacherouschannels to the shelter of the bowl below. To have
the privilege of re-living the identical physical sensations on
skis that were the wonder of life during the first decade of life!
This is indeed nothing less than again being permitted to tread
reverently upon the sacred ground of childhood. Now as then, heart
pounding, I pushed myself into the uncertain, hoping to emerge
safely in the harbor below with tales of a
grand voyage for all those who inquired.
The next challenge was a short pitch of 45 degrees. The snow
was hard, but edgible...a couple of handfuls of jump turns down
the face next to the trees and home
free...technique carefully crafted on Tuesday and Thursday nights
at Hickory Hills with Austrians who spoke an unfathomable sing-song
in the sea of small bodies that hoped to be Olympians. We dreamt
of travelling the world, and understanding their strange tongue.
50 jump turns for a yodel, a hundred for a hamburger. At the top
of my game, I had completed 125 in a shot. 25 years later, I twisted
my hips more than I thought possible and landed in a compact telemark
stance, balanced and already launching into the fall line for
the next. Success! The slope was strewn with gear and bodies of
alpine skiers eyes agape at what
they had just witnessed. But as the snow softened on the descent,
so did my mind.
Telemarking visciously exacts its toll on those whose thoughts
stray or become even momentarily self-satisfied. Within minutes
I was again a flailing idiot who's reminded those same defeated
alpiners that this skiing without heels business is a fool's game.
In an overzealous effort to salvage the day, the next time down
the same headwall, I found just how fast I could slide from top
to bottom while doing my best imitation of a curling stone, a
first of many subsequent major tele 'garage sales' to come during
the next 12 months. Humbled , I was to pay proper tribute for
the remainder of the day. I realised that without befriending
failure, I would never be at peace with this new method of sliding
and adjusted my attitude accordingly until operator error was
accepted with a grin. When was the last time I had cracked a smile
after a fall on my alpine gear? Who said ," Win without boasting,
lose without excuse."? To this I add,"...and turn the
other cheek with laughter on the lips."
Eight sessions later, I slipped my toes into the pins for my
first ride in the backcountry. The local outdoor shop had taken
an interest in this rather large foreign free-heeling anomaly,
and introduced me to their back country group. Armed with the
appropriate 3-pin and/or mountaineering gear, we set off for the
backside of the Hakuba area in the Japanese Alps. The day was
sadly overcast, and just as we attached our skins for the climb
upward, the sky
mourned the end of winter with bitter drops of spring rain. My
spirits sank as we slogged up reach the first ridge line. While
executing a kick turn half way up, I slipped and came down on
my right pole rendering it a buckled stalk of useless aluminium.
I was shattered. Make a lurk? But, this still wouldn't help me
up the remaining 400 vertical meters of our climb.
"Does anyone have some chopsticks?" A ray of hope!
The spiritual leader of our expedition, Mr. Yokoi, had a plan!.
I did as a matter of fact have 2 sets of disposable chopsticks...
fished them out of my mess kit, and Yokoi-san pulled out the group
duct-tape. A multi-tool crimped the broken shaft back into an
acceptable oval, and with chop sticks duly inserted, the remains
of the lower shaft were forced into the upper and taped tight.
No longer adjustable, but fully functional, we continued on. The
smile had returned to my lips as Yokoi-san led the route through
the fog and rain. Reaching the ridgeline, I again thanked him
for his help. I was later to learn that he and some of the others
in our group had long ago made the decision to forgo the life
of the 'salaryman' with its' 70 hour work weeks and binge drinking
social functions for the life of driving a cab 4 days a week in
exchange for 3 days of freedom. They had been skiing in these
mountains for as long as I had been alive. As I struggled with
the first downward pitch, I marvelled at Yokoi-san's luscious
tele-arcs in the rain soaked white muck . The snow conditions
reeked havoc with our efforts, but watching my fellow conrads
laughing their way through the rain and the spills, I too was
infected with the wonder of good cheer that gripped us on that
first soggy descent. The hot springs at the
bottom of the route , along with a few thoughtfully packed cans
of beer erased all of the shivering dampness at the end of a memorable
day. These guys had somehow escaped the cultural hammer of choosing
an alternative life and embarrassed all the risk that it entailed,
including hauling me along for the ride. Since that season now
nearly five years past, my
passion for skiing (heels free or attached ) has returned with
a vengeance.
Free heel skiing has been the magic pill, its brethren still
willing to help those less experienced and always eager to swap
information. Our bonds to one and other remain strong because
ournumbers are small. Thus far there is little hype, fashion,
or attitude. Hopefully the leather vs.plastic, fat vs. skinny,
wool vs. fleece debates will remain but a murmur and not distract
us from the miles of turns at hand. We'll promise to keep our
egos stowed, and those with 'the skills', keep making a run or
two with those of us who are still scrambling their way up the
learning curve. We're all ambassadors for free heeling, and as
such, should take time to
answer questions from all those who ask, as well as keep asking
ourselves, "What is this madness that we've contracted?".
You may just rekindle someone's fire in the process. To all those
who have contributed to my reconstruction over the past few seasons,
you have my deepest thanks. To Dana in Maine who 20 years ago
planted the seed, I'm particularly indebted. The love is there.
Dancing with the Mountain
By Jenn Gleckman
"What are those?" is a common question I get when
riding the chair lifts. When I explain that 'they' are telemark
skis, and how I use them, the next inevitable question is "Why?".
Why, indeed? While my usual glib response to the questioner is
"Why do you ski or snowboard? I do it because I enjoy it.",
the reasons why I tele run deeper than that. But that sort of
discussion is too complicated for chair lift talk, and I let my
fellow lift riders think that I'm the type of eccentric (dare
I say masochistic?) person that enjoys the hard work that free-heel
skiing offers to the
uninitiated.
I have always been in love with the snow and the mountains.
Having learned to ski at a young age in Southern California, the
dichotomy between the sun and surf of my childhood surroundings,
and the drama of the mountains where I learned to wedge turn and
ride pomas created a passion for skiing. I was never a great technical
skier, but optimistically thought that spending one season in
a ski resort would change that. When the opportunity came along,
the resort was Val d'Isere, and I gladly made beds and cleaned
toilets for my lift pass and six days of skiing a week. The Alps
had bewitched me, and despite a broken leg late in the season,
and no real improvement in my skiing ability, I came back for
a second season, this time to Chamonix. Here, I saw a friend gracefully
dancing down the mountain on telemark skis. Entranced, I convinced
her to teach me. Even on the bunny slopes that day, I felt an
intrinsic difference - the relationship between skier and mountain
was different, inexplicably so. I loved the freedom of the binding,
the
weightlessness of the skis, and the feeling that I, too, could
dance with the mountain.
I spent as much time on teles as I could that year, thinking that the obsession with this art form would dissipate over time, as it had with alpine skiing. It didn't. I could not stop thinking about it, dreaming about it. My skis began to feel like an extension of my body, a natural part of my being as I began to ski terrain I had never attempted before. I sought all conditions in an effort to see if I would cease to enjoy the movement in a particular terrain. While boilerplate ice proved challenging, and wet, crusty snow was fatiguing, the rhythm of the dance changed, but never stopped. From ballet to foxtrot, waltz to tango, I was content to follow the mountain's lead, which was never the same, but always enjoyable.
And then there were those rare, perfect moments, caught in the silence of a snowstorm, dipping and carving through buttery snow, eating snowflakes as I smiled and laughed, going where the mountain led, forgetting about everything but the moment. Those instances were the ones that I thought back to when asked by some unsuspecting soul why I was wearing those funny-looking skis, or told that my bindings were broken. But how do you explain it? I don't - I can't. I just smile to myself, and hope that they, too, find their own way to dance with the mountain.
From the moment I went free-heel--skis too long, boots too
soft--I knew that I had found something important for my life.
My first year of turns were awkward, front leg splayed forward,
stick straight, holding back, fighting the fear of speed, fighting
the fear of
letting go.
Learning to telemark ski is not an intuitive process, not at
first, but you can't think too hard either. What it requires is
a suspension of disbelief. You have to get beyond your lack of
faith that the key to everything lies in the smallest appendage
on your body. How can it be possible? How can such a small detail
underlie the basis of everything? Learning that
detail, believing it, taking that leap of faith that it all begins
with your little toe, is beyond all
logic.
Finding your first turn is magical, and when you do, it opens
up your world. A subtle pressure and look--an arc, a turn. What
a shock to understand that something so powerful begins with such
a small thing. Getting that feel, achingly slowly, bit by bit,
one turn grows
to two, then a series, hesitant, wanting. Sensing that grace is
close by. Smoothing out the awkward unbalanced twists, searching
for the center, that balance where it all works. Your body taking
in, slowly, the lay of the land, finding rhythm and power.
It's all a process of letting go. Letting it happen. A jazz riff.
You learn your chops, you practice like hell, and once you get
it, you fly. You let go and it all happens in one sweet soulful
moment. It's just you and the snow.. Ahh, the smell of snow. It's
like smelling a void, nothingness. It's a privilege, a sweet smell,
subtle, and exciting.
Now, when I strap my poor feet onto boards lined with steel,
I somehow feel the grace these slats allow. Holding back gravity,
but barely, carving up a headlong downward plunge into something
ecstatic,riding the edge between sure death and beauty. It allows
me to glimpse all that life can be--the sweet beauty of being
nowhere but here, at one with the snow, the dark woods, my body.
Concentrating on holding that edge, that position, then change.
You
learn to go along with it, adjusting, folding and unfolding. Your
movements mimic the changeability of the snow, the line before
you. Nothing held for long, your body constantly moving up, down,
tighten, squeeze, release. Doing everything you can to be the
moment, to become one with the present, the beautiful present
of the sun and sky and you and the mountain. All tied together,
all one body, united.
By Heather Hanselman
Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I think my butt sticks out too far in a skirt, or my legs are a bit too short. I think I am too loud, too cocksure. Or I am too reserved or judgmental. But all of those insecurities and doubts are lifted when I am wrapped in 3-ply Gore and my feet are snug in my plastic boots. An inner glow begins to melt away those uncertainties and lift my soul out of its angst-ridden shroud, and I become a telemark skier.
With each bend of the knee, a layer is removed. Each carve makes
me feel more alive. Everytime I am covered by a blanket of powder,
I am reborn.
Occasionally I still have doubts, but all I have to do is think
about who
I am when I make those turns to push those feelings away. I am
a telemark skier.
Heather.
Why I love Telemark Skiing
By Mike Adrian
I used to sit in the dark house at night with the outside porch light on, and watch the snow fall for hours. Celebrating every time it picked up, and praying every time it slowed down that it was not the end of the storm. I stood sentry, peering into the night to see how much had accumulated on the roof of the wood shed, and periodically running out the door to measure the depth against my seven year old legs. I was not a telemark skier at the time. In fact I was just beginning to alpine ski. It was not the potential powder skiing that excited me (I wasn’t good enough at the time to appreciate a powder day), but it was the snow itself. I loved it. I loved the way it made everything quiet, and the soft look that it gave to the land. Something about it filled me with an overwhelming sense of anticipation. Winter was wonderful and I didn’t really know why, but it kindled a fire in my soul.
As the years went by I became a good alpine skier. I even took up snowboarding for a year, just to try something new. All the while I relished winter, but had a sense that I was missing something; that Winter was hiding something from me.
A friend was a telemark skier. He talked passionately about how great the skiing was in the woods, the awesome terrain in the backcountry, the beautiful powder to be found away from the crowds and what we have now dubbed the "urban slab". In a short time he had outfitted me with an old pair of leather boots and some premium rock skis. One run down a lift serviced trail and he proclaimed "your ready for the woods!".
I wasn’t ready in a technical sense. I had no telemark
skills and I struggled to make turns while avoiding the trees.
But I was ready in the sense that the fire was now an inferno,
an unquenchable all consuming blaze that could never be put out.
That first run in the backcountry revealed to me Winter’s
secret. In that one run down the backside of the mountain I discovered
what has now been proven over and over again in the pre-dawn starts,
solo journeys, face shots, gasping lungs, burning quads and sweat
soaked smiles. I had discovered that telemark skiing is the fuel
for the fire that winter ignites, the key to unlocking the passion,
the anticipation of snow.
by Nils Miller
Another rainy day in Seattle as I made my way across the University
of Washington campus. I found the Mountaineering Club office,
and the genial fellow behind the counter confirmed that they did
still have a pair of telemark skiis for me to check out for the
weekend. I picked up the 200 cm Karhu XCD GT's, and noticed two
things immediately: they were
much much lighter than my alpine skiis, and while they had a no-wax
grip pattern like my Fischer cross-country skiis, they did not
have any camber. I asked him if that was normal for telemark skiis,
and he shrugged his shoulders. Still, the rental price was right
(absolutely
free), so I took them back to the department where I was slaving
away as a doctoral student and daydreamed the rest of the afternoon
away, watching the fat drops fall and thinking about the associated
snowfall up in the nearby Cascade mountains.
After work I drove to Feathered Friends outdoor sports store
(for you old-timers, in its first location) and rented a pair
of Merrell Ultra telemark boots. To this day I remember the clean
blue laces. The boots were beautiful, and compared to my Lange
XLR alpine boots they were like bedroom slippers. At home I put
on all my gear to make sure everything
worked properly. Then I realized I had no safety straps. While
sipping a microbrew, I asked my friend Tom about that. "Will
I need safety straps?" "No, probably not. I don't know."
Tom, at this point, was nearly as ignorant as I about telemarking.
In years to come he and I bent knees over many miles of snow and
glacier, however.
On my second beer I considered the safety strap issue while fine-tuning the fit of my Voile shark-skin plastic skins I had borrowed. I usually go for the solution with engineering elegance, but I decided that since these weren't even my skiis I might as well do something simple. Like a piece of string. Brilliant. I'll just tie a loop of string to my boots. Later that weekend, fumbling with an ice-encrusted knotted string, I'd regret this 'simple' solution.
Saturday morning broke surprisingly clear. In those far-off days, a sunny weekend day in the middle of winter with 1 or 2 feet of fresh snow only led to 20,000 people jamming the highways exiting Seattle. These days, it's much worse. As always we took my 1969 Volvo, complete with sandbags in the back and fairly serviceable studded snow tires but not much in the way of power.
Two hours later we made it to the Steven's Pass parking lot, but Tom instructed me to bear left rather than the usual right turn. This was the first aspect of the day that was different from the usual ski day routine. More differences were to come.
Our tour was to be Heather Ridge, and Tom was my inerrant guide.
I put on the mysterious plastic skins and stretched them tight
on the skiis, entered the bindings, tied that ridiculous safety
string, and we started trudging up the deep parallel lines of
the track. The last traces of fog burned off and the sun lit up
the powder-caked trees. The track made efficient switch-backs
up the backbone of the ridge, and I could barely contain my excitement
as I scanned what seemed like endless fields of untracked powder.
We soon gained the upper bench and turned around for a view before
crossing the short flat section to the upper
ridge.
With the crystal clarity that comes with a sunny winter day,
I could see in detail all the ski lifts and skiiers at Steven's
Pass resort directly across the valley. The time-worn cliches
always have a grain of truth to them, and indeed as I watched
these skiiers swarming in their quest for that last tiny patch
of untracked powder I couldn't help but think of billowing clouds
of ants or bees, buzzing with insect-likeagitation. Meanwhile,
on our ridge tour, we had seen precisely no one all morning. Within
the next hour we did run into a small group or two, and I had
my first exposure to the lesson that when backcountry
telemarking 9 times out of 10 the people you meet are unfailingly
pleasant. Even when lift skiing I find that ratio holds up pretty
well. It's fitting that Tom, the person who introduced me to backcountry
telemarking, is one of the best friends I have ever had.
After a quick early lunch and some aimless exploration of the rolling terrain on the ridge, it was time for the descent. At this point in my skiiing career I had done approximately 6 telemark turns--turns I had carved in daring slow-motion through mid-thigh powder in Central Oregon on my Fisher Crown XC skiis. Now that I had true telemark skiis strapped to my feet--with actual edges, albeit for only a third of their length--and real boots that came all the way above the ankle, I expected the turns would come more easily than the did on my XC equipment. Unfortunately they did not; the snow conditions were as perfect as you'll find in the Cascades, and the terrain was similar to an intermediate run at a ski resort, but my neophyte technique coupled with insanely inadequate skiis with no camber or stiffness equalled one big fall for every two turns.
But it didn't matter. Tom and I flailed our way down the slope, laughing more the more we fell. Tom fell less than I so he had even more to laugh about. The weather held, the air was crisp, and the ants just across the valley continued to swarm madly on the groomers as we made our descent. My brain was absorbing two important facts--these telemark skiis were a remarkably efficient way to get up a mountain, and there were moments during even those wildly imperfect telemark powder turns that were transcendent. Our low-to-the-ground genuflection imbues a curving balance to all our limbs; none are extended, no joints are locked, and the feeling of elastic flexibility--especially in those leather lace-up boots--becomes all-encompassing. In my clumsy way I sensed this potential, and became addicted.
My virgin trip was on a Saturday, and by Monday evening I had purchased telemark skiis and bindings (my Trak Teletrak T 6000's, a mildly double-cambered waxless backcountry ski I still use occasionally on those rare forays into gentle terrain). By Wednesday I'd found some leather boots on sale. As a graduate student I had little money, but I reasoned that this sport was essentially free when practiced in the backcountry. And to aid my learning curve, I took advantage of 5 dollar lift tickets on Mondays and Tuesdays at Steven's Pass ski resort. Since that day I have teleskiied as much as a career as a physical chemist will allow. I have skiied wild mountains in the rain and in the powder in many places in British Columbia, Washington, and Oregon. Epic powder and spring corn in Southern and Northern California. Sweet powder teleturns in Vermont, Utah, and Colorado. All kinds of snow in all kinds of places in New Zealand and Australia. Craggy alpine terrain in my mother's homeland, Switzerland. I have made more friends than I can count through telemarking. My closets full of skiis and boots give silent reproof to my earlier notion that telemark skiing was going to bean inexpensive sport, but I'd spend it all again without hesitation.
Arguments about the superiority of one sport over another are
inherently doomed to futility on two fronts--the first being the
slipperiness of persuading anyone that what you find pleasureable
they should find pleasureable, the second being that this sport
like all sports is a
leisure-time pursuit and thus dwarfed into inconsequence by television
pictures of death and famine and other more fundamental concerns.
At the same time though our moments of pleasure help make our
lives and our personalities bearable and livable, and we shouldn't
be ashamed of that. As the years go by I continue to meet ex-alpine
telemarkers and ex-snowboard telemarkers, as well as those who
glide on whatever they feel like that day, but for me at any rate
there is no sport I'd rather be doing. I enjoy my job but don't
know if I'll still be doing it in 5 years; I enjoy where I'm living
but could easily move in the coming years--but I have no doubt
that I'll be telemarking until my body is too decrepit to allow
any more. My grandfather at age 70 taught me to ski when I was
10 on the slopes of St. Moritz, and he skiied until his late 70's
until his doctor asked him to stop, and it was on his Fischer
cross-country skiis that I tried out this mysterious turn.
Again I think now about that idiotic string used on my first
day of telemark skiing, and the thread of skiing that connects
every place I have ever lived and connects to many of my friends
and family, and connects now through the web to this on-line place
called
www.telemarktips.com.
Why I Love This Sport
by Ola 'Nordmann' Belsaas
March 1940:
Turbulent times in Europe. In the middle of Norway, however, this
disturbing news is distant to most people. My father is 18 and
full of energy. He is dividing his time in some studying and busy
skiing. He and his friends attend school in town, and the seven-mile
distance makes good practice for the weekend races - highlight
of every week.
Their biggest problem is when the snow gets wet. Every Saturday night they apply a new layer of tar to the bases, in order to obtain the best glide and ice resistance possible for Sunday - racing day. So to get the wooden ski bases dry enough for the tar to stick is demanded.
Early Sunday morning they take off for the venue at the local
hill, six miles of mellow ascent. Most all of the youngster girls
and boys from the farms around are going, so the breaking trail
is no big deal. The trudging is also plain routine from weekdays.
They only keep some bread and hot chocolate, a spare sweater and
the box of sticky- and paraffin wax
respectively in their pack. But the excitement and expectations
can be heard in the high voices.
At the venue there has already been a lot of activity. The
big Nordic jump has got a dump of wet snow throughout the night,
and so has the rest of the area. The cross-country track is no
real track yet, only some branches put in the snow along a single
track. The poor first starters will be making it better, and in
the second lap the conditions will be quite equal. The
downhill course is about to get traversed, skidded, herringboned
and beat up before the wooden gates are put down.
My father is excited. He has got a late start number for the cross-country race, and he and his best friend have been heavy practicing the final of the Nordic jump, the telemark turn, this last week. The downhill race is first. Father finishes middle-ranked, but this is also his poorest discipline. Jump is next. He is not pleased with the length, but get pretty high scores for style. Cross-country is last, and my fathers favorite. Lots of daily practice, and his single pair of skis are lighter than many of the others' single pair of skis.
There is some queuing in the middle of the cross-country race
due to the bad track, but eventually my father finishes as number
one. That doesn't give him the best total though, because his
best friend had a far better rank at the downhill, and is also
a decent jumper. He jokes that my father should get some heavier
skis, in order to become more of a buster in the gates. When daylight
dim their hollowing can be heard on the moderate descents back
home, and they throw in a little friendly combat down the steepest
hillsides as well.
In April 1940 Norway is invaded like a bolt from the blue, and everything gets serious - skiing included. At New Years Eve the next winter my father puts his sleeping bag in the pack, grabs his skis, leaves a farewell note without saying where he is heading, and makes his solitude and four days trip across the border to Sweden. Later that year he is flown over to Scotland for sabotage training on and off snow.
February 1975:
- Hey Ola, you're supposed to be skiing, not bamboo forest planting.
Sting the slope, don't stab it! If you can't manage, we'll have
to ditch the poles again!
Sigh. All morning was spent packing the snow in our tiny downhill course between the trees. There is at least a foot of fresh on top of the soft old snow, although it never gets quite dry around here. I am longing for turns, not packing! My old man even demands me sideslipping back down instead of turning when I am on top. On the other hand, my 'third hand' alpine set up makes the packing much easier, but the stiff leather boots are cold as hell. And why don't we go to a lift area? Hah! I'd rather be with my friends; they get driven to a ski area and don't have to deal with deep snow and rubbish for gear!
We have made a huge fire between some old firs to keep us company, and to keep the flimsy touring boots from becoming a lump of ice. Why did he bring my duckbill boots and my cross-country skis anyway? Dad, I'm nine years old, I know how to ski down a slope on those! I want to go alpine, that's what all the other boys do!
Puh! Done packing! Now we'll finally be making turns like Ingemar Stenmark! No? First lunch, then put on your other rig, I'm told. I don't believe my ears. I keep silent as a clam all through the meal, and mumble one of those words I'm not yet supposed to be familiar with when I put on my lace-up boots.
I have been skiing without poles before. In the photo albums there are a lot of pictures of me as a small kid, skiing pole-less. But with real alpine gear at hand, why this huge back-step? The old man says something about different techniques for different situations, but I am too upset to be listening.
First some plowing and wedging. We have done a proper job packing our lost-in-the-woods slope, so it doesn't create much trouble. Then he builds a small bump in the middle of the slope. Do you remember how the ski jumper lands and finish their jump, he asks. Sure. He goes first... His skis hardly leave the snow over the bump, and he lands with front knee bent and the other knee dropped, and finishes at the bottom with one long turn in the same way. Looks cool enough.
My turn. You bet I'll show you this is a waste of time, so we can switch to the alpine gear the sooner the better! I give 100% at the bump. Ooops, a little unstable at the landing, but I manage to get my knees in order. My arms are wildly windmilling, but I made it, and go for the finishing long turn... Snow is everywhere, ears and nose included. Dad helps me cross my legs and skis back to normal, and says he is sorry he forgot that I am left handed. Now we will practice the right turn first.
After an hour, I am still half angry with him - but at least that adrenaline keep me from becoming scared from all the face plants. He also falls a couple of times, and despite it looked a little suspicious; it makes it all a lot funnier. However, the landing and the right turn are slowly getting better, and after some more hot chocolate I am ready for the left turn. Same story, as the first try, and I want to go home immediately.
- Easy on lad, one day you'll be thankful you invested this much in the basics. Now put on your buckle boots and plastic skis.
The last two hours I use my Blizzards, and even Dad locks down his cables at the heel for some alpine turns. I really can't understand how he makes those huge planks turn at all, but we are both having big fun. Even though the locked heels are a little unfamiliar too, the turning seems fairly easy after all that struggling from what Dad called the telemark turn. But I tell myself - one day I'll manage that one as well!
December 2000:
It has been a lousy winter this far. Hardly any snow. Only a few
inches in late November, but luckily an inch of wet slab at Christmas
Eve has left us with some image of white Christmas. I have been
longing for turns ever since I finally broke down and bought some
"real" telemark gear at the spring sales. The revelation
stroke me after a great spring corn day with the boys, where I
was to swap my E99s for some Tuas and buckle boots for half a
day. An internet site has also been fueling my desires since I
first found it in
October.
However, Christmas time is the children's time, and my two
year old is getting a long and strange present from his parents.
He is still mostly into the wrapping, but lights up when he reveals
the skis inside: The recognition of the skis is due to heavy indoctrination
from the quiver on the garage wall, and I've been telling him
for a long time that Santa will most likely
provide him such a pair.
The first steps are taken on the floor. No problem, but he seems a little confused alas "what's the point?" Boxing Day we turn outside, and when I make him to follow my tracks on the plain lawn, he suddenly gets some idea what this is about. We are both pole-less, and I make a wide track with only a few corners. At the first corner his skis get crossed, but I tell him to calmly try to mix them back. (One of the advantages of diapers, is that a fall on the butt is no big deal...) At the next corner he also crosses his skis, but this time he manage to put them back in order. Lots of prop ups from Daddy, and he smiles from his feeling of gained control.
Later we stump along up a very tiny slope aside of the lawn, and I place him between my legs. All tips forward. Some weight on his skis as well, not only hanging in my arms. Off we go... Wow! The next run we manage to keep his skis on the snow all way down, but we get a little speedy from the track we first created, so we're suddenly way out of balance. Ooops! We fall sideways, and I take the fall on my back, lifting him up from the snow as we plant. I am quick to laugh out loud, but am at the same time a little anxious about his reaction. He laughs as well all right, turns towards me, grabs my head and looks me straight in the eyes (for the very first time):
- Funny, Daddy! One more time!
So what was the question again? I guess my less-wordy answer is the timelessness of the camaraderie, the pleasure of snow in the face and all the smiling faces it creates from generation to generation, regardless of gear and money.
A Journey into the Backcountry
By Steve Riggs
You’re skiing on those? The year was 1981,and that was my reaction to my brother’s new, skinny, ski equipment. I had read about telemarking in Powder magazine, and this was my first exposure to it. My brother Andy was an expert alpine skier, but he was now crashing and burning down easy slopes. He kept at it though, for this new thing had a strange kind of pull on him, and by season’s end he was back on the steeps. Out of control wipeouts were still common, however, and I was not tempted into giving up my alpine gear.
Over the next few seasons I skied less and less with Andy. We had always enjoyed ducking the ropes to ski the out of bounds, and now he was taking his new skills out into the real backcountry, far from the lifts. His pictures and stories of the wild country and untracked snow of the Canadian Rockies intrigued me, and although I was envious at the ease with which he traversed into untouched powder stashes at the resorts, I still clung to my downhill ways.
My initiation into the world of free-heeled skiing came from an unexpected direction. Children, job and a dislike for lifts had curtailed my wife Joanne’s skiing, until one day she came home from a yard sale with cross-country skis and boots. “ We’re all going skiing tomorrow”, she said, and while I grumbled about wasting a perfectly good ski day, the next morning, I was out skiing the trails on rented gear. I was surprised, hey, this was fun, and the light equipment made the little downhills in the trail challenging. I was soon hooked, my interest in alpine skiing waned, and family ski days out on the trails became our weekend activity. My eyes had been opened to a new dimension in winter fun, and there was so much to learn and explore. Every snowfall, each new trail or far side of a pass was a fresh experience!
Fifteen years later, our daughters have grown up, one hasn’t
skied for quite some time and the other is a snowboarder. For
Joanne and I, our shared passion for this sport is renewed each
autumn, and every winter brings new adventures:
Cross-country tours in November’s first snow, waiting for
the snowpack to build.
A long, mid-winter tour to distant passes, then silently descending
through glades and meadows, gliding back down the trail at dusk.
Then there are powder days, making first tracks with every run,
while the resort skiers shred the new snow into oblivion in the
first hour. Every year we plan weeklong backcountry cabin trips,
where the rest of the world fades away and it’s just our
friends, ourselves, and day after day of playing in a seemingly
endless wilderness. Sometimes it’s just the two of us, with
our dog, on a sunny spring tour to our favorite alpine lake. We
sit for hours, relaxing, talking and marveling at the peaks and
glaciers that surround us. No one counts vertical on one of those
days, that’s not why we’re there. Our season usually
ends with a trip to the Wapta Icefield. There, if the weather
co-operates, we’ll ski to summits that feel like the top
of the world, and gaze out over a sea of peaks and valleys promising
endless adventure.
Adventure! There’s that word again. It’s what backcountry skiing is all about, and you will find it in the freedom of the heels. It’s a lifestyle, not just a sport, and what better way to live.
The Future Smells Like Neroli
By Keagan
I peeked up through the flap of the bivy, smelled the cold damp, clear air. The air was so light and still, your spent breath would linger in wispy strands. Slowly the vapor would dissipate up towards the yet to be brilliant bluebird morning sky. The sun struggling to rise up over the adjacent cliffs gave a sense of the perfect moment that was to become the day.
Coffee fresh in hand, the pack was organized and skins mounted, I dreamed of being already at the summit. Not so quick. I broke off those thoughts. I must not let myself alter the day which hasn't even begun to unfold. Revel in the present, I shouted quietly to myself. Patience.
With gear-in-tote, I proceeded down to the meadow. The snow glittered. It was light and unusually deep for a fall adventure. Nearly thirty inches deep at camp. Breaking trail seemed difficult, but the days unfolding kept me from considering anything as a burden.
Wilderness presents such an overwhelming stimulus during times of solitude that cannot be duplicated by any other means.
Within an hour of departure from camp, thoughts of the city or the day-to-day had simply disappeared. I was in a place where the day-to-day had little meaning. Moving along in nearly thigh deep, I would pause.
Take it all in, I yelled at my brain! As if it really needed encouragement.
The views were unspeakably beautiful. The adjacent peaks had gone from a pre-morning glow of orange to brilliant white, against a blue back drop. The trees were generously heaped with a fluffy blanket that didn't seem to weigh them down at all. As I scanned my surroundings, not another human soul could be seen. No overhead airplanes or helicopters. Nothing of mankind interfered with the transmission.
Nearly 10:30 a.m., I stop and take a break at a false summit. The view to the east is brilliant. The morning sum is so bright, squinting and tearing slightly alters the view. I wipe my eyes, readjust my hat and enjoy an orange. I feel one could stay in such a place indefinitely. Being mildly cognizant of the time, I gather my gear and head on.
The easy part of the days climb was over. Time for real effort. The balance between being overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the surrounding mountains was starting to become affected by the steep and deep. I slowed my pace.
At this point I drift back and forth between whether or not a companion would be nice to have on this particular trip. A companion to share the views, the experience, the trail breaking.
After another forty minutes, and what seemed to be several tons of displaced snow behind me, I reached nirvana. Torn between wanting to race down and choke on an adrenaline rush or to casually stroll through effortless turns, I quickly removed the skins. The gaze down the near perfect 34 degree slope that broke a few hundred feet below was enough to make the stomach rise. Anticipation. The excitement got to a point that I could stand at this spot any longer. A deep breath, and the first turn. I don't know about many, but there is something to be said about the first turn. In powder. Then come the connected turns, one after another. Continuous. The dream state ebbs and flows with punctuated burning in the legs, the will to resist giving in becomes pushed. You continue. The world shifts from bright white to a impaired blur as the snow sweeps up and over, and as continuously as the turns. Vertigo? A dream? Brief moments of clarity allow you to chart the course, stay on track. More turns, more connections with the natural world that must exist in a different dimension than our eyes or senses can detect.
Suddenly it is over. The sun shines, a few birds here and there. Without conscious thought, the skins come out and I'm off for another shot. Gluttony? Perhaps, but first, another orange.
By Robi Dawson
My dad taught me to ski when I was ten. We got to the top of the hill at Waterville Valley in NH and he said, “Now, you play hockey, you can stop on skates. Stopping on skis is the same, sort of. This is how you snow plow, let’s go.” We made a few tentative turns and then he said lessons were over for the day, time to get to the serious business of having fun on the snow. As he blasted down the mountain he yelled out one last piece of advice, “if you get going and cannot stop, just lay down.”
I thought he was going to leave me there but Dad made about
5 or 6 turns and finally stopped and waited to see if I was able
to follow him. However timidly, I was able to follow.
I was not really scared of the speed or falling, but of being
alone on the mountain, I realized the only way to solve that problem
was to keep on going. I was so focused on catching up with Dad
that I ignored the cold, wind and what I would now call crappy
snow - this was in 1978, the Blizzard year in NE - I did not even
notice how much my feet hurt in those boots, or that my toes and
fingers were starting to turn blue from the cold. I just wanted
to catch up with Dad and I was actually having a blast doing it.
Two seasons later we moved to Utah and I started skiing at Park City - with a free season pass. The winter after that Dad was more interested in his new love, who shall remain nameless, than in skiing with my brother Richmond and I.
We took to getting up early in the mornings and taking public transportation up to Brighton and Solitude - cheap kid's tickets. One day I shared a lift ride with a guy at Solitude on tele gear. Sure I asked him the typical adolescent questions, “what kind of boots are those”, “where can I get some”. I did not ask about the bindings, and I do not even remember a thing about his skis… I was so amazed when he told me that he had taken hiking boots and had them resoled by a cobbler to make them fit in the bindings better. I was mesmerized when I saw him kneeling down low. It was beautiful, poetry in motion. I decided then that I would learn to telemark when I could afford to pay for my own gear, stuff like hiking boots and cobbler’s fees and not rely on Mom who cold not afford much. as a divorced mother of two. She always made sure I could get out at least one day every weekend, she never gave up on trying to make it so my brother and I could go on living as we did before the divorce.
Many years passed - 16 or so - before I actually started skiing again. As soon as I was on the snow I thought of that guy at Solitude. The next season, that would be last year, I got myself tele boots and bindings and went out and had the second best day of my life on snow, the best day remains that first with Dad way back when in NH!
When I got on my tele gear for the first time I remembered Dad telling me to just stop like in hockey, “what the heck I thought, I can still stop on skates, so I can stop on these puppies too,” well, getting my feet back together for that parallel hockey stop was not easy from the tele turn I had just made, and I fell on my left side, got right back up, turned the other way, and fell on my right side. Boy was I having fun. I did not give up, kept on trying, and I will keep on trying this year.
It was after that first day on a local hill here in Hungary that I realized why skiing is so great, I do not have any desire to compete with others on the snow. I remember the great times I had with Dad - how easy it is to forget all the bad times when there were so many, so important good ones - when I was a kid and that it was on the snow where I learned the greatest lesson of my life, never give up. And that's why I love this sport.
Thanks Dad, thanks Mom!
By Marc Schwitters (FreeCO)
Breathless. Anticipation breeds anxiety as the pale blue of
the pre-dawn hour gives way to an impossible majesty of reds,
golds, oranges, and purples. Painting a continuously evolving
masterpiece across the horizon. A single-track zigzags behind,
following a hidden contour through the few scrub pines blanketed
in white, still fighting for existence at 11,000 ft. The last
solders of a fearsome army that clawed and grabbed in the dark,
illuminated by a single headlamp less than an hour earlier. A
rhythm found 2000 ft below carries on. Each breath, each step
in synch; drawing nearer and nearer. Silence interrupted by heavy
breathing and snow squeaking under foot. Lungs that have carried
beyond this point countless times still searching for oxygen in
the thin, icy air
A breath of wind blows cold but fails to chill; activities engine
is burning hot. Beads of sweat form as dawn’s first rays
begin creeping over the ridge ahead. Blue turns to white as a
plume swirls off a distant peak. Depositing grain by grain the
building blocks of an impossibly large cornice somehow defying
gravity. Each step the ridgeline steadily looms larger. Jagged
rocks adding color and texture to the sharp line of white against
a lapis backdrop.
After a seemingly endless series of steps the pitch levels and the top of the ridge is gained. A whole new world of peaks, valleys, ridgelines and forest emerges below. A world void of machines, filth, anger, and hatred. Simple needs, simple pleasures, all clearer in the warm morning light. Steadying against the wind a final pit is dig. Information tabulated against the days earlier measurements and a lifetime of experience; a decision is made. Skins are stripped, boots buckled tight, one last swig from the Nalgene and its time.
Why I Love This Sport
By Sue Lee
picture this:
a threespined stickleback hunting child of salt laden air summer fog winter sun descending a snow covered slope for the first time tangle of limbs equipment cat eye sunglasses father shaking his head slow down please
laughing, laughing
next snapshot:
dour man says sorry we didn’t tell you about this part of your job is to conduct snow surveys now you can’t drive there and it’s too far to walk or snowshoe so you’ll have to ski with 40 pounds of sampling equipment on your back do you have skis no well we can rent you some giant sequoia cathedral now take it easy coming down the trail those tracks you made going up are as slick as a toboggan run tumble tumble pick up the pieces of the sampling equipment don’t lose the data
stentorian laughter
now a series:
how hard can this be pick up a book read about it apply it light snowfall first turns in butt deep powder silent slow motion movement climb up do it again fascination exhilaration
climbing pack full of zinfandel conversation hearts URAQT big wind limbs losing snow falls down my back damn this isn’t steep enough climb it again anyhow look at my figure 8s ok so they look like 8s a 5 year old might write but at least I’m out here moving large muscle mass through space
parked on a lift watermelon jolly ranchers solving the world’s problems have you read the latest did you hear that piece on NPR I laughed so hard I almost cried now tumbling through powder fall down get up fall down get up god that was a kick in the ass my quads hurt just beat on ‘em and let’s do it again
climbing two steps rest two steps rest wind whitebark pine clark’s nutcrackers hey birdie sunscreen slathered face to the sun a sweet savory orange summit nevada desert turn around descend all mine
touring girl scout cookies damn I can’t eat those they have dairy in them your turn to cut trail gimme some of those red vines take a picture of me with the lake in the background let’s have lunch here on this porch of a deserted summer home did you bring cups for the guinness you can’t drink it out of the can what else do you have in your lunch god I wish this day would never end
all the while, laughing
why?
unadulterated, crystalline joy
Why I Telemark, or Of Gulls and Genuflection
by Hamish McIntosh
I've always resented birds. Every single one of them has more freedom than I do. As a child, I went often to the beach, where each dumb, squawking seagull wrote poetry each time it flew. I watched them as they turned and wheeled. Each move was perfect. I saw freedom that flowed in form, but somehow still remained free.
I wanted to be a bird.
So, a child's solution, I rode my bike often. I learned to steer with my knees, freeing my arms to spread out like wings in the wind. They weren't wings. They weren't even close.
School sports came next, but they didn't help. Soccer was about foot speed I didn't possess and, later, rugby was all mud and violence.
I downhilled for years. It was fun and I loved it. But it was always only a sport.
After high school I took up white water kayaking. It was beautiful. But the river was the poetry. I only learned how to use it.
And always, there were the dreams. I've often been told we all have dreams of flying. They say that how we fly in those dreams, tells us much about ourselves. Well, my flying was always labored. I was proud that I did it but in the dreams I remember, I was like a balloon with a slow leak of helium. I would flap and flap but gradually lose height, as if staying aloft was slightly beyond my ability. Or I'd only just manage to get off the ground, and rarely reached the soaring heights I imagined when I was awake.
The Seventies came, and with that, therapy. Feldenkraus and Rolfing. Yoga and Tai Chi. Bioenergetics, too. That took me to theater school, where I wrestled daily with a stiff and inflexible body. I remember endless hours of movement classes, freeing muscles that hadn't moved since childhood. I did classes in jazz ballet, which I hated, and classical ballet, which was beautiful and graceful and flowing and everything I admired. Except when I did it. I should have started when I was five.
After that, I went to work, which led to an office, which led to a chair. Now I have hit "middle-age". (It's a concept as arcane and incomprehensible to me as the fact that one day soon, I will cease to exist). With that have come all the things of life. Children to raise, a home to maintain, a career, a relationship. Responsibilities. Most of them good. None of them poetry.
But one day, a few years ago, I went ski touring with friends. One of them knew how to telemark. There, in Red Heather Meadows, on the Diamond Head trail, I linked several turns. And my body said "huh?"
I took lessons, bought gear, and skied whenever I could. I dropped knees 'til my quads burned from lactic acid, and my legs couldn't lift the skis anymore. I stumbled off mountains at the end of the day. It didn't matter. I was back the next morning. I had found the movement my soul had been searching for.
I'm not a great skier. A good one, sometimes. But there are moments when I get it; when I float through the powder, or dance down a maze of tightly-packed moguls. It feels then like a muse has chosen to speak through me. For part of a run, or only a series of turns, I am possessed by poetry. I have little control over when those moments occur.
But it has occurred to me that, when they do happen, perhaps, in the trees, there are birds watching.
I think they may be jealous.
I've always resented birds. Every single one of them has more
freedom than I do. As a child, I went often to the beach, where
each dumb, squawking seagull wrote poetry each time it flew. I
watched them as they turned and wheeled. Each move was perfect.
I saw freedom that flowed in form, but somehow still remained
free.
I wanted to be a bird.
So, a child's solution, I rode my bike often. I learned to steer with my knees, freeing my arms to spread out like wings in the wind. They weren't wings. They weren't even close.
School sports came next, but they didn't help. Soccer was about foot speed I didn't possess and, later, rugby was all mud and violence.
I downhilled for years. It was fun and I loved it. But it was always only a sport.
After high school I took up white water kayaking. It was beautiful. But the river was the poetry. I only learned how to use it.
And always, there were the dreams. I've often been told we all have dreams of flying. They say that how we fly in those dreams, tells us much about ourselves. Well, my flying was always labored. I was proud that I did it but in the dreams I remember, I was like a balloon with a slow leak of helium. I would flap and flap but gradually lose height, as if staying aloft was slightly beyond my ability. Or I'd only just manage to get off the ground, and rarely reached the soaring heights I imagined when I was awake.
The Seventies came, and with that, therapy. Feldenkraus and Rolfing. Yoga and Tai Chi. Bioenergetics, too. That took me to theater school, where I wrestled daily with a stiff and inflexible body. I remember endless hours of movement classes, freeing muscles that hadn't moved since childhood. I did classes in jazz ballet, which I hated, and classical ballet, which was beautiful and graceful and flowing and everything I admired. Except when I did it. I should have started when I was five.
After that, I went to work, which led to an office, which led to a chair. Now I have hit "middle-age". (It's a concept as arcane and incomprehensible to me as the fact that one day soon, I will cease to exist). With that have come all the things of life. Children to raise, a home to maintain, a career, a relationship. Responsibilities. Most of them good. None of them poetry.
But one day, a few years ago, I went ski touring with friends. One of them knew how to telemark. There, in Red Heather Meadows, on the Diamond Head trail, I linked several turns. And my body said "huh?"
I took lessons, bought gear, and skied whenever I could. I dropped knees 'til my quads burned from lactic acid, and my legs couldn't lift the skis anymore. I stumbled off mountains at the end of the day. It didn't matter. I was back the next morning. I had found the movement my soul had been searching for.
I'm not a great skier. A good one, sometimes. But there are moments when I get it; when I float through the powder, or dance down a maze of tightly-packed moguls. It feels then like a muse has chosen to speak through me. For part of a run, or only a series of turns, I am possessed by poetry. I have little control over when those moments occur.
But it has occurred to me that, when they do happen, perhaps, in the trees, there are birds watching.
I think they may be jealous.
By Nate Roth
I wake up early. Not because an alarm clock has gone off, but because I can’t sleep anymore. I feel the spirit of the schuss calling to me. It echoes down out of the Sierra Nevada. It’s still dark, but it will still be dark in 20 minutes when the alarm actually does go off. My skiing clothes are waiting in a pile on the chair next to my bed. Polypropylene, Capelene, wool and Gore-Tex each sit patiently. Now, fully clothed and ready, I walk to my vehicle to check the gear that I loaded last night, and have checked several times since then.
Two hours of driving pass as I feel the snow calling. Everyone in the vehicle is excited and ready for the slopes. First we pass a patch of snow on the side of the road. Then more. At some point we realize that the ground is covered, but where the dividing line is, we don’t really know. One last corner and an exit from the freeway, we have arrived.
The sun is now up, and has been for an hour. The lifts began running 15 minutes ago. I sit on my tailgate and pull on my boots. I delight in the feel as the buckles click closed. I know I’ll be opening the buckles for the stomp to the base of the lifts, but for some reason, the buckles need to be closed. Skis over my shoulder, helmet stuffed with gloves and goggles, I am ready. I open the buckles.
The skis are on; I’m ready. My buddies, a bondage skier, and a knuckle-dragger are anxious to go. At some point on the lift, my brain gets through to my heart and convinces me that, no, this is not just another dream. The day fades away. Bent knee after bent knee after face-plant have passed. Somewhere in there the granola bars I brought for lunch got eaten, but I don’t remember. My legs are tired as I slide to a stop on the closest patch of snow to my truck. My legs and knees are quivering. I know with absolute certainty that my muscles will be complaining by the time I get home.
On the drive home, it gets dark again. I work to avoid loosing my self in memories of the just passed day. It’s been an expensive day, both emotionally and monetarily. I shower. I eat. I lay in bed, and wish that I could do it again tomorrow.
A Journey into the Backcountry
By Steve Riggs
You’re skiing on those? The year was 1981,and that was my reaction to my brother’s new, skinny, ski equipment. I had read about telemarking in Powder magazine, and this was my first exposure to it. My brother Andy was an expert alpine skier, but he was now crashing and burning down easy slopes. He kept at it though, for this new thing had a strange kind of pull on him, and by season’s end he was back on the steeps. Out of control wipeouts were still common, however, and I was not tempted into giving up my alpine gear.
Over the next few seasons I skied less and less with Andy. We had always enjoyed ducking the ropes to ski the out of bounds, and now he was taking his new skills out into the real backcountry, far from the lifts. His pictures and stories of the wild country and untracked snow of the Canadian Rockies intrigued me, and although I was envious at the ease with which he traversed into untouched powder stashes at the resorts, I still clung to my downhill ways.
My initiation into the world of free-heeled skiing came from
an unexpected direction. Children, job and a dislike for lifts
had curtailed my wife Joanne’s skiing, until one day she
came home from a yard sale with cross-country skis and boots.
“ We’re all going skiing tomorrow”, she said, and
while I grumbled about wasting a perfectly good ski day, the next
morning, I was out skiing the trails on rented gear. I was surprised,
hey, this was fun, and the light equipment made the little downhills
in the trail challenging. I was soon hooked, my interest in alpine
skiing waned, and family ski days out on the trails became our
weekend activity. My eyes had been opened to a new dimension in
winter fun, and there was so much to learn and explore. Every
snowfall, each new trail or far side of a pass was a fresh experience!
Fifteen years later, our daughters have grown up, one hasn’t
skied for quite some time and the other is a snowboarder. For
Joanne and I, our shared passion for this sport is renewed each
autumn, and every winter brings new adventures:
Cross-country tours in November’s first snow, waiting for
the snowpack to build.
A long, mid-winter tour to distant passes, then silently descending
through glades and meadows, gliding back down the trail at dusk.
Then there are powder days, making first tracks with every run,
while the resort skiers shred the new snow into oblivion in the
first hour. Every year we plan weeklong backcountry cabin trips,
where the rest of the world fades away and it’s just our
friends, ourselves, and day after day of playing in a seemingly
endless wilderness. Sometimes it’s just the two of us, with
our dog, on a sunny spring tour to our favorite alpine lake. We
sit for hours, relaxing, talking and marveling at the peaks and
glaciers that surround us. No one counts vertical on one of those
days, that’s not why we’re there. Our season usually
ends with a trip to the Wapta Icefield. There, if the weather
co-operates, we’ll ski to summits that feel like the top
of the world, and gaze out over a sea of peaks and valleys promising
endless adventure.
Adventure! There’s that word again. It’s what backcountry skiing is all about, and you will find it in the freedom of the heels. It’s a lifestyle, not just a sport, and what better way to live.
In my dreams it's always easy to see why I love this sport. Effortless flying down virgin powderslopes under a clear blue sky with good friends. What could be better?
But here I am, staring into the dark and shivering under two
worn out blankets, while I try not to listen to the snoring of
my neighbours. The only thing I can think about is avalanches,
crumbling summit ridges and falling down steep icy couloirs. Each
time when I manage to bring my mind under control a new wave of
panic sets in,
and I want to escape to the warm and fuzzy safety of the skiing
resort. At last I do fall asleep, not because I feel at ease,
but because I'm worn out after 5 sleepless nights like this.
When the alarmbell rings I feel more tired then before I fell
asleep. I don't want to get up, but I have to, otherwise my timeschedule
falls apart. When I raise, I hit my head for the sixth time this
week on the rafter that supports the roof just half a meter above
the bunkbed. Now comes a hectic hour. I run around, trying not
to forget anything. I dump everything into my pack, and then pull
it out again because I can't find the sunscreen, my wallet or
the topomap. Downstairs "breakfast" is ready on the
tables. Chunks of old, dry bread with a few cups of marmelade.
Just the sight of it makes me
sick. There is a long line for the buffet, where I can get some
tea. I forget the sugar and must queue up again. It's impossible
to pass more then a few bites through my throat. And of course
my boots are not dry, the skins have fallen on the dirty ground
and when I am ready to go I remember the new blister that needs
a tapejob.
Outside the wheater is worse then expected. Down here at the
cabin it's too warm, but large snowplumes on the summits indicate
a fohn storm. Despite the fohn it's clowdy, so I think hard about
abandoning my plans for the Piz Wunderbar. But the Einfachkogel
really looks too silly and when other people leave for the Piz,
I go in that direction too. To make up for lost time I start too
fast, and soon I am overheating. I take of a sweater, so I loose
the time again that was won by racing. Easy lad, I say to myself,
you have time enough. It hasn't snowed for days, so there is a
deep skintrack. The snow has
a frozen crust, and the track is very icy, which becomes more
and more problematic when it gets steeper. My narrow skins are
hanging on desperately and I have to sidestep on the frozen crust
each time they slip. Luckily the snow gets better higher up.
When I reach the summit ridge I quickly decide that that is
too much. The rocks are icecovered, and the storm is brutal up
here. I feel nervous enough about the stability of the snow slope
without risking my life on these verglazed rocks. There are a
lot of older ski tracks in the snow, and I hope that it will hold
for a while. First turns are not very glamerous. It is just a
bit too steep for me and I make all kind of beginners mistakes,
like spreading out too much, leaning into the slope and dragging
with the poles. But lower down the feeling comes back when the
angle eases of a bit. After 10 nice turns I reach the crusts and
suddenly it's all over. While the AT skiers jump down easilly,
I am left behind with stiff legs, rigid back, sore muscles and
especially feeling like a dork. Cautiously I make my way down
until near the cabin where the snow has melted
enough to make it easy again. At least I can make some good turns
in view of the crowd.
The weird thing is, despite this terrible story, I enjoy every single bit of it (well, maybe apart from the breakfast). Am I a pervert, or just good at laughing about myself, or is it the feeling of achievement that comes afterwards? In the end the question remains, what do I love about this sport?
By Nate Lavey
East Coast Skiing is different than it is on the West Coast.
Knee-deep powder is as elusive as the Monster in Lake Champlain.
Deep base gouges are not battle scars but are an accepted fact
of life as you jump turn over the patches of dirt that scars your
chosen path.
We had a good snow last year. 571" up at Jay Peak (swallow
that pill, Alta). It gave a hardpack kid like myself near hallucinatory
spasms as my shins wallowed in wet, white gold. I spent time at
the resorts seeking luscious stashes of sensual amazement.
A day spent at Cannon seems the best way to describe Why I Love This Sport. Cannon is known as an old mountain of handcut wonders. The credo: "If it ain't blue it ain't ice" is often muttered when Cannon is mentioned casual conversation. This can and often is the truth at Cannon as it is battered by unbearable winds. The rime ice on the chair lifts is a tribute to this. As some of you may or may not know Cannon is connected to the long defunct Mittersill ski resort, by short hike off of a low use trail. After hiking up to the top and surveying the Whites and enjoying the 360 degree view, I descended a tight mogul-filled trail. I let my quads stop shaking after being sapped from the seemingly-endless battle, I reached the old Mittersill lift. Its wood is a decaying brown that immediately attracts your eye. It stood in empty watchfulness as I combed over the possible runs.
I chose the trail on my far right. It had a variety of grasses
quivering above the snow, simultaneously shimmering in the wind.
I quasi-skated over in the direction of the trail. My black, boot
banged, battered, but much loved T1's swam in ankle-deep luxury.
As I pointed my skis down the rolling slope and pushed off with
my poles I was silently happy, being away from the "department
stores and toilet paper,...Styrofoam boxes for the ozone
layer...."[-Neil Young]
I drifted intuitively down letting muscle memory burned into my legs control the arc of each turn. Every once in a while I would dodge a relentless rock or tree limb poking above the snow. The high grasses I saw at the top were now under my skis and brushing against my legs as they shifted, interspersed with the snow.
A fork in the trail again gave me pause. I had only crossed
over from Cannon once before but this time my dad was reluctant
to go. I left in a tele-tuck, alone (always a sensible thing to
do). I looked at both options knowing that one trail would take
me back to Cannon base lodge and one would take me someplace unknown.
I distinctly remember numerous track leading one way and none
the other. But, this is the East and aphrodisiacal, fresh, knee
deep, white snow, is not found on the Peabody Slopes. I chose
to go left rather than straight, I was a little happy and a little
scared.
I got a bitchin' run though. My tips were like the hands of a 16 year old running his fingers through a girl's hair. The scene was virginal. My knees dipped in fluid energy, absorbing the cold air and expelling my warm breath in one ecchymotic movement. My lactic acid oozed like the turns I left behind and the blisters on my feet. I had been released from the cages and rages of Southern New Hampshire.
I saw the road and knew I was screwed. The black tarmac was like the river Styx. This was not were I wanted to be and I knew it. "Shit." This was the only word I uttered in the whole endeavor. I kicked off my skis in hurried aggravation. My Chili's clanged against the fiberglass and the toe plate, usually the distinctive red was lost in a sheath of white and brown snow.
When my boots hit the pavement they left bits of snow trailing behind me with the imprint of the sole, I knew I'd miss lunch.
Eventually I ‘shwacked my way into the kiddy area. I looked like one of the "bad" men you tell your kids to avoid, coming out of the woods, snow in my goggles, soaked, my clothes sticking to my skin, I hobbled under the pain of my rapidly developing blisters onto the double lift and huffed in heavy relief.
That's What I Love About Tele-Skiing. I also like having something to talk about with the 16 year old girls in my class. They dig the tele-skiers.
I think.
By: Dan Bilello
The air is crisp, the shadows long, and the colors are turning. While most sensible mammals are busy getting fat and looking for reasonable spots to avoid the coming snow and cold, my mind ceaselessly wanders to thoughts of fresh tracks. For our furrier friends, the change of season drives their instinctual need to prepare for a time of rest and hibernation. For the tele-obsessed, the shorter days and cool weather elicits an entirely opposite response. Though perhaps not instinctual, it is equally overwhelming to mind and body. Ski season is near!
The snow is flying. Even with the monthly pilgrimages to dirty snowfields over the summer, it takes a bit of time to get the ski legs back. The conditions are less than ideal, but the sheer joy of dropping the knee, finding that elusive point of balance, and flowing with gravity makes conditions irrelevant. The anticipation of epic days to come fuel run after run marred by rocks and grass. Trusty boards are marked and scarred, but p-tex shall heal all.
It’s cold. It’s dumping. I’m floating through spruce and aspen. The silence is only broken by the sound of my own breathing and the involuntary whoops of joy from friends only a few meters away but hidden among the stands of conifers. We each pick our lines, leaving tracks that mark our own unique styles. At times of rest, you can stand transfixed by the beauty of the path forward. A pristine canvass of powder below, a cobalt blue sky above.
We drop in. The first turn so critical to establishing the rhythm. The power of driving into a turn and the weightless freedom of floating back to the surface is a constant reminder of the beauty and physical grace of the telemark turn. At times it all comes together and is almost effortless...almost. These battered planks of wood, metal and plastic strapped to your feet become an extension of your body as you succumb to the force of gravity.
Spring arrives. Groggy and hungry the hibernators arise. Fat
and happy, I look back on a season of fresh tracks with friends
old and new. Now I must prepare for my times of scarcity…a
steady diet of corn and mush awaits me over the months to come
until the change of season brings new snow again. And as I wait,
I wonder…how could one not love this sport?
"Why I Love this Sport"
(or – Reaching Paradise Two Knees at a Time)
By Dale Mikkelsen
Rusty and Creaky, Left and Right, One or the Other, Idiot and Imbecile.... all of these pairings describe the pair of knees that I own; the pair of knees that one day four years ago were completely out of mind. I never really knew I had them. Sure they were there, sure I banged them around now and again, but they simply did their job and functioned without a whole lot of thought or my own mental input.
Let me take you back four years to the year I figured out that I was pretty much tired of downhill skiing. This was one of the formative years of snowboarding, when it was still the sport of youth sub-culture and ski resort rebellion. This was the year I tried telemarking instead. I wasn’t some hippie granola-munching ginseng growing freak from the rain forest of the Washington Coast, I wasn’t the manic backcountry touring obsessive, nor was I a self-abusive masochist that strives to inflict pain among myself. Instead, I was just the guy that wanted a new way to turn that got me closer to the snow and closer to the roots of all those sports which require sliding on snow.
Little did I know on this naive day four years ago that I had taken the first step towards becoming this self-masochistic, backcountry “earn yer’ turns” freak that now occasionally sucked from a wine skin and ate granola. Now, four years later I have a goatee, bad breath, a mop of unruly hair, and Gore Tex bib pants covered in duct tape. I am not a liftee, I don’t smoke pot, but my knees freakin’ ache. Not just November through April, but year round. I now fully know that my knees exist. They tell me every morning when I go through a ten minute stretching routine that would make my 13 year old arthritic dog envious. I am 29, my 13 year old dog, in dog years, is 104.
Four years later I have turned three perfectly good downhill skis into perfectly horrible telemark skis. I have successfully torn three sets of bindings out of those perfectly good downhill skis. I have strapped the outer she