Artistic Footprint

Nowadays, people are migrating from formalized education and are now at least gaining insight on their tangible worlds through new means. They are gathering at their computer screens, magic 8 balls, and tabloid magazines to get answers for all these “how comes” that before the digital revolution, could only be answered by with a library card, and well – when was the library ever cool?

Oddly enough, it seems that no one has thought to figure out what these people want to know, and it seems as though the best place to find out is the google autosearch function. This is the same method used to create individually markettable targets in retail, but I think it’s far more entertaining just to see what’s concerning people. Interesting questions that I think show people reaching out to relate themselves to a standard or norm. Some of these google queries might strike you as shockingly introverted, ignorant, or fearful, but others might pose the realities of how the average citizen sees their world.

Keep in mind that google has created these auto completes based on the lower mainland area.

[View with PicLens]

1234►

[View with PicLens]

12►

Either you love what you do, or you make enough money to do what you love. The latter are sold on the sloppy seconds of the realities of those who live how they want. The product being the escape from their chosen reality instead of the life they naturally gravitated to. Those who book time off work to enjoy their weekends are the statistical income of those that barely survive on their daily transaction. I’m speaking of course about mountain life. The tireless backstage hands of these mountains that are built by, operated by, and maintained by, but never prepared for, the people that breathe its existence. I’ve come to realise that there are some things that you cannot choose in life, passing events that seemed inevitable from the start. I gauge my life by the moments that seer the flavour of “I can’t believe I’m here right now” into the deepest parts of my memory. The feel of being on the edge of nature versus man is what fuels that fire, where you’re at its whim or you’re haunted by its power, you can either exploit it or have your mistakes glaringly unveiled, but there is no room for pride, only appreciation of that boundary. And at the end of the day, the heartrate drops and the beers are cracked to the sound of folk music as I write the day’s resolution as a mountain employee.

The life of a ski bum. Foamies, kraft dinners, wild cats, hostels, and hitchhiking aside, I’ve never felt at a loss when I’ve finally reached the summit of my destination. Consider that lifestyle and relate it to the industry as a whole; nobody gets into starting a resort with the idea of making money. Even the evil conglomerates of intrawest are on the verge of bankruptcy since birth. Not to mention half of their staff is there for the free pass and feels no guilt calling in sick after a dump. As a survival tactic, all mountains have incorporated the concept of invoicing every step you take from gas to parking to lodging, beer, food, lessons etc. Us bums have watched this happen and learned to skirt our way through the fine print with covert thrift.

But unfortunately we keep knocking shoulders with the overwhelming crowd of weekend warriors. I remember glimpsing the freedom that all mountains brought – the rustic vibe of rotting mouldy improvised shacks, local riders who knew the secret trails by referral only, and the shops that hooked you up with sweet deals. All replaced with shiny new highspeeds, uniformed tacky jackets and standard operating procedures. The Wal-mart effect of bringing more people to the industry, albeit people only more disassociated with the mountains, forcing the die-hard cabin-sleepers to fight over the scraps of the rich tourists. My soul needed to be free of this silent assimilation, and I started to understand the true costs of fresh lines.

So I migrated from the corporate skiworld, the highspeeds, apres-skis and lattes. I found myself patrolling on privately owned Mount Seymour, with its 12 minute chairs powered by 50 year old electric motors maintained by some sleepless gnarly staff. Once used to the ricketty 2 seaters, I quickly realised that those chairlifts don’t get you to the start of your run, they get you close to the best runs of your life. Because they drop you off at the trailhead to freedom, where you strap on the snowshoes or slap on the skins and seek out a line that you can name your own. Where every gasping sweaty breath you suck in makes every second of downhill feel that much more worthy of your exasperation, and every sip of beer at the end of the day taste that much more real. In a world where time is the most precious resource, the fixed-chair makes the earth spin slower.

Mount Seymour is a special place. Its rarity comes from a fire inside that sparks ideas through necessity and improvisation. Seymour’s history runs deep, riddled with old trail cabins that mark it’s past. It was one of the first places to permit snowboarding on its hills and has since led to the development and creationism from pro riders like Roberta Rodgers, Devun Walsh, Sean Genovese and Kevin Sansalone. Now it boasts a park that rivals that of Snow Park, yet remains quietly unheard of. Amongst the goings-on of mountain ops one can immediately see the loyalty that some have for this mountain. Not just the forever staff like Alex and Bob who are never shy to chat about the way things used to be, but still those seymour locals on a quiet day pop out of the trees for another ride up. These people complacently and without hesitation hide in solitude at the foot of a mountain, never seeking fame or fortune, but the harmlessly conceded satisfaction of daily runs between jobs as a barmaid or skitech or 40 year old paperboy. This is the quiet army of people the magazines write about but rarely ever find. They are your mountain locals, and they’re the ones who are probably still drunk and disorderly on the chair above you or interrupting your business call with the inviting phrase of a rambling “Hey dude welcome to Bakerrrrr….” or “wanna hit of somea this dude?” But they’re well connected, exemplified by the “get-some’s” to the nicknames of those dropping cliffs below. They are friendly enough to stammer through an awkward ascent and stoked to just not be hung over that morning. Consider these folks as the near-extinct and magesticly duct-taped wild animals. They will reward your patronage with secrets of the true hidden stashes so that you can experience the real mountain life – even for a day.

These hills are like the drive-in theatres of yesteryear; a dying breed of history that should never be lost. A place where we can associate our toes and fingers with the realities of appreciating their existence by the snapping in of bindings or the grasp of a skipole through cold fingers, and the pitter-pattering of feet as we leer over the edge of a sudden drop into a cloud of fresh. We did not choose snow, snow chose us. Sounds rather deistic, but thats the only way I know how to explain it. That white fluffy stuff that falls from the sky under immaculate conditions is what keeps me glued to the forecasts, radars, and general 6th sense of unstimulated giddiness. And upon the light of first chair I awaken to the grasp of seat and cable as I rise to the heavens, and come to rest upon the potentials of gravity. Never awaiting the invitation of crisp mountain air infused with the wretched stench of anticipation, accompanied by the torque of adrenaline to calm last nights hangover and the fear of a self-destructive motivation to huck.