Artistic Footprint

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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.

The long and endless battle. Wanks on Planks vs Dicks on Sticks. Who owns the slopes and why?

Skiing was there first. Grainy old photographs line the heritage chalets with ancient wooden whittled 2x4s. but boardsports always had their space. The epitome of going against the grain, the anti-establishment lifestyle took its form on the concrete, surf, and soon to be snow. The funny thing about snowboarding is that it came to be right at the time that snow industry was dying. It took five years for mountain resorts to respect snowboarding as a sport they could endorse, and thats how it all began.

Snowboarding gave way to a huge new way to shred the gnar. You ride sideways, you’ve got a duck stance. You can ride backwards or forwards, and you’ve only got one edge to hold you on the mountain.

Skiing almost lost it. The industry hit a lull just as Jake Burton Carpenter was rubbing in polyeurethane on the top sheet with a scuba mask on. I remember those days. I myself snapped my collarbone while skiing and successively gave into peer pressure in joining the twin tip movement. The term “skiing is for little fat kids” got thrown around a lot.

But as things always do, boardsports just aren’t boardsports if they aren’t lingering in the background. The sub counter-culture. Skiing came back full force. Ski producers like Salomon and K2 reinvented the ski to incorporate snowboard characteristics, specifically twin tips.

So skiing seems to have had a bit of a burp in the retro-years. But it’s still just as strong as ever. But its important to note that skiing would be nothing if it hadn’t been for snowboarding, and you pompous oafs with your season passes, volvo SUVs and spandex onesuits had best come to terms with that.

Snowboarding helped bring in a whole wack of other amazing good things. The underground marijuana industry creates $4 billion annually in Vancouver alone (coincidence? I think not) We’ve also created awesome new terrain features like the half pipe and terrain parks, which otherwise would never have existed. For those of you unfamiliar with the industry, a mountain in New Zealand, Snow Park, is… well just a huge park cut into a mountain, and any self-respecting boardsport filmmaker would make the trip down there if he plans to sell his DVD. We’ve also created a new language all of its own to describe the conditions of snow or outcome of the day of riding (see below)

One thing I’ve noticed has remained static. Skiiers, for the most part, still ride that boring old way. The perfect S-turns, synchronized to the beat of some Journey track, making a fucking mess of a fresh line, or at worse, creating these moguls to swell up their knees on. The thing that I love about snowboarding, and is so natural and innevitable to those that try the sport, is that snowboarders ride to have fun. Theres no business in it unless it starts with monkey. Snowboarders move left and right, up and down, with the spontaneity of what they see. “I’m gonna check this out – oo that looks like fun. Lets ride over this”

Where skiers do prevail is the trade of expertise. It seems the natural option to progress and learn more about their sport. Snowboarders habitually learn till they turn, and then think that they own the sport. Snowboarding IS hard to master, and I’m fully aware of my boarded brethren that are foresakenly chained at the ankle, the power-sliders with an invisible friend. If you’re new to snowboarding, embrace your title as a wank on a plank and take some lessons. Learn a thing or two, break the bad habits and figure out how to manage your sleek, cambred, sidecutted beast.

What’s most important here is that we’re all having fun. Gravity sports is a great way to beat the trend of 9-5. to come up top and forget about life and just shred. Doesn’t matter if you’re on a monoski, snowblade, snowboard or ski. Just get out there and find something you love that keeps you eager to depart the norm.

For those of you still reading, here are a few synonyms for the word snow that I’ve added to my vocabulary:

pow

groomies

gnar

kibbles and bits

muffins

cookies

camel snot

hoar

shreddies

trackout

slush

sugar

chicken-soup

velvet

champagne

corn starch

Bean Bag Filling

Beach Sand

Snowment