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Wispy flakes of snow crystals fall through the sieve of a pine tree as gusts of wind blow through green limbs that contrast greatly with the gray landscape. The cold wind is comforting, even on chilled skin. It is clean and refreshing. Small blizzards can be heard developing distantly in the forest when the wind picks up velocity to cause the snow bound in the branches of the pines to fall in a large white swoop.
Skiing is much more than racing. It is more than ultra-light skis with carbon boots. National Teams and qualifying criteria mean little deep in the forests of the silent trees that witness skiers move noiselessly down drainage ditches and fall lines. Training philosophy and all of its principles are as worthless as a soggy banana at the bottom of dirty backpack.
The racing community in America must not forget that skiing dates back to times when the sport was a way of life. Whether that be the Birkebeiner, who carried a shield in one hand and a spear functioning as a pole in the other, or our Scandinavian grandparents, who claim that they skied to school "over the river and through the woods."
Backcountry skiing is a return to these roots. Sure, the equipment is lighter and the trails are often well marked now, but the sound of a ski whining over new powder and the feeling of freedom maneuvering around trees and rocks is still the same.
As an athlete having a stake in the competitive world, I have often neglected this philosophy. Training became just a means to an end: pursuing the quest of becoming the best. On long-distance skis, thoughts were focused on making my watch go faster so that my training would be complete and I could write it down in my log.
Spring is not a time to sit on the couch drinking beer and endless amounts of ice cream. It is the one time during the season that training demands are light, thus allowing for an elite athlete to pursue activities often brushed aside in the weeks of long and hard training and racing. My motivation to continue pursuing sport as a way of life is rekindled during these long skis through the woods with little thought of how my training would be affected. I don't give it a second thought in taking a pause to admire a view or re-savoring a sweet run.
Backcountry skiing is only a part of the whole concept of skiing, however. In order to be called a true skier, one should be proficient in all techniques and methods of gliding over the snow. I have often found use for a telemark turn or two in a race on tricky corners. My balance and confidence also seem to improve after a few hours in the forest testing myself against nature and its unknowns.
The one place I will not go is Alpine skiing. I will not wait in endless lines after paying exorbitant amounts of money that I do not have to ski down a run that is far from undiscovered. Alpine ski technique is certainly something to consider, but I am not attracted to its equipment or its resorts. If I want to go downhill, why should my heel be locked up? What did it do wrong?
Today I was backcountry skiing with my friend Hansi at Bolton Valley. As we left the parking lot, a regional cross-country ski race was starting. It was awkward to be leaving behind the racing world to pursue what they might consider to be worthless training. Some of them might benefit from a trip or two stripped of their heart rate monitors and fluorinated waxes.
The snow began falling ever harder. It was difficult to make out the distant peaks, or even peer deeper into the forest. Skis glided, free from the friction of the snow, and propelled by the pull of gravity from far below. Suddenly, arms flew, often unheard words were screamed, and a skier fell, sending a huge tidal wave of white powder snow flying into the air. Damage control began. Everything was fine. The adrenaline rush faded, but a skier's soul had been stoked.
Peace,
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