There is an adage as old as swiss mountaineers and their long wooden skis, as old as the chairlift at Whitewater, as old as neon ski suits and Glenn Plake's mohawk. There are no friends on powder days.
In a small mountain town (henceforth referred to as SMT) powder days are like an epidemic. There is an electricity in the air, a buzz through the town. Signs on storefronts read "gone skiing be back...". There are distinctly fewer tucks on the main streets, an eerie silence fills the lanes . No one is getting their coffees, kids aren't in school. There are a few more tire tracks leading out of town than on, say, a non-powder day. It is what is on every one's lips, "30 cm's last night and I hear there's more in the forecast".
Arriving at the ski hill of an SMT on a powder day is like nothing I have ever experienced. At least not on a powder day like this one. Now I am a girl of the west folk. I have seen my fair share of storms having spent a good six winters in Fernie. I have crossed passes where I could barely see past the hood of my car, grew up in Calgary where we have been known to laugh at Vancouverites when they 'get snow'. I was born skiing powder. I hadn't seen this kind before.
Needless to say, when it snows in an SMT everyone knows. The parking lots are filled, on a Monday, before the lift is even grumbling to a start. Doesn't anyone work in this town? Doesn't anyone go to school? Strange, even to me, was the way each vehicle in the lot had their windshield wipers pulled up off the windows, standing at attention, tiny lightning rods for the static electricity in the air, the excitement. This means a dump. As I anxiously pulled on my boots in the lodge I could hear everyone talking about the last time they had seen this much snow. I could feel all the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I needed to get out there. As I waited in line listening to others recount their first runs I got goosebumps. My first run, until my last today, were simply epic. Boot to thigh deep powder gave me the incentive and the confidence to ski my heart out, "Hey dad, is the landing off that lip good things or bad things?" (bad things = the quintessential Canadian landscape, rocks and trees and trees and rocks, good things = more snow). My smile got bigger with each race to the lift. The lactic acid burning in my thighs usually means slow down, take a break, today meant ski harder, the faster you go the sooner you get to sit on the chair, the sooner you get to go again. My exhilaration was echoed in everyone else. Men and women who 30 years ago were young retirees like my Dad ripped just as hard as the 3 and 4 year olds, the 16 year old boys in their baggy jackets and coveted headphones. Everyone just wanted to be out there, be part of the action.
The end of the day was the culmination of everything good about a SMT powder day. It started snowing harder, then harder, even harder. Simply riding the lift got a good cm of accumulation on boots, skis, helmets and any other horizontal surface. Each of those last runs we made first tracks. Each time we came back our sweeping turns and long descents were covered by more champagne powder. Needless to say the visibility was minimal. This was the truly magical part. The best way to discern who was around you was simply to listen. The woods, the valleys, the peaks, were all filled with a menagerie of the happiest, whooping, whistling, yee-hawing creatures imaginable. Everyone was having more fun than I think might be legally allowed on a Monday afternoon.
So, after all these years, perhaps even centuries, I must disagree with the idea that there are no friends on powder days. It might be possible that like the tree that makes no sound if no one is around to hear it fall, there is no true powder day in an SMT if there is no one to share it with. Sure you might not be sticking with the whole crew but there will always be that person you can ask, "Hey, is the landing off that lip good things or bad things?", or exclaim, panting as you slide on to the lift of questionable safety, "epic. Really epic." Or, those wild beasts in the woods worshipping Ullr with their hoots and hollers as the wind through the trees and knee deep snow. We are all friends on powder days.
In a small mountain town (henceforth referred to as SMT) powder days are like an epidemic. There is an electricity in the air, a buzz through the town. Signs on storefronts read "gone skiing be back...". There are distinctly fewer tucks on the main streets, an eerie silence fills the lanes . No one is getting their coffees, kids aren't in school. There are a few more tire tracks leading out of town than on, say, a non-powder day. It is what is on every one's lips, "30 cm's last night and I hear there's more in the forecast".
Arriving at the ski hill of an SMT on a powder day is like nothing I have ever experienced. At least not on a powder day like this one. Now I am a girl of the west folk. I have seen my fair share of storms having spent a good six winters in Fernie. I have crossed passes where I could barely see past the hood of my car, grew up in Calgary where we have been known to laugh at Vancouverites when they 'get snow'. I was born skiing powder. I hadn't seen this kind before.
Needless to say, when it snows in an SMT everyone knows. The parking lots are filled, on a Monday, before the lift is even grumbling to a start. Doesn't anyone work in this town? Doesn't anyone go to school? Strange, even to me, was the way each vehicle in the lot had their windshield wipers pulled up off the windows, standing at attention, tiny lightning rods for the static electricity in the air, the excitement. This means a dump. As I anxiously pulled on my boots in the lodge I could hear everyone talking about the last time they had seen this much snow. I could feel all the hairs on the back of my neck rise up. I needed to get out there. As I waited in line listening to others recount their first runs I got goosebumps. My first run, until my last today, were simply epic. Boot to thigh deep powder gave me the incentive and the confidence to ski my heart out, "Hey dad, is the landing off that lip good things or bad things?" (bad things = the quintessential Canadian landscape, rocks and trees and trees and rocks, good things = more snow). My smile got bigger with each race to the lift. The lactic acid burning in my thighs usually means slow down, take a break, today meant ski harder, the faster you go the sooner you get to sit on the chair, the sooner you get to go again. My exhilaration was echoed in everyone else. Men and women who 30 years ago were young retirees like my Dad ripped just as hard as the 3 and 4 year olds, the 16 year old boys in their baggy jackets and coveted headphones. Everyone just wanted to be out there, be part of the action.
The end of the day was the culmination of everything good about a SMT powder day. It started snowing harder, then harder, even harder. Simply riding the lift got a good cm of accumulation on boots, skis, helmets and any other horizontal surface. Each of those last runs we made first tracks. Each time we came back our sweeping turns and long descents were covered by more champagne powder. Needless to say the visibility was minimal. This was the truly magical part. The best way to discern who was around you was simply to listen. The woods, the valleys, the peaks, were all filled with a menagerie of the happiest, whooping, whistling, yee-hawing creatures imaginable. Everyone was having more fun than I think might be legally allowed on a Monday afternoon.
So, after all these years, perhaps even centuries, I must disagree with the idea that there are no friends on powder days. It might be possible that like the tree that makes no sound if no one is around to hear it fall, there is no true powder day in an SMT if there is no one to share it with. Sure you might not be sticking with the whole crew but there will always be that person you can ask, "Hey, is the landing off that lip good things or bad things?", or exclaim, panting as you slide on to the lift of questionable safety, "epic. Really epic." Or, those wild beasts in the woods worshipping Ullr with their hoots and hollers as the wind through the trees and knee deep snow. We are all friends on powder days.
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