Why I Gave Up Skiing

  

Bombs away, Bridger Bowl 2012

The feeling of gliding through bottomless powder is almost indescribable. It must feel similar to being in outer space, floating through existence full of joy. When I launch off the edge of a mountain side down a hideously steep slope littered with stumps and boulders into a field of fluffy white powder, there is a whooshing in my ears, an exhilaration of excitement and fear. I am addicted to the feeling because I know how wonderful it feels even though my lizard brain is wired to be terrified of this exact action. I have attempted to hike up some of these mountain slopes in the summer that I fearlessly descend in the winter and am astonished at the incredible steepness. Somehow, by strapping on 185 cm boards to either foot, I am comfortable hurling myself off vertical drops where a tumble could mean death. That is the joy of skiing, the thrill, the soft landing, a face full of powder and a laugh. 

I have spent thousands of days of my life skiing. Doing rough math, I have put skis on at some point in at least 1/10th of the days of my life. Thousands of days starting at the age of three, with my dad pushing me on the bunny hill and stopping abruptly at the age of 30. I haven’t skied in two years and counting. It is a fascinating turn of events from my early twenties when I traveled the world just to ski. I lived to ski for most of my younger life.

I skied a hundred days a year through middle school and most every weekend in high school. I moved out west at seventeen to go to college, but really, I just wanted to ski. I would do whatever it took to get to the mountain as often as possible. I would do my schoolwork in the middle of the night so I could wake at dawn to get first tracks. I saved every penny to travel to British Columbia or Utah every spring break. I wore shirts that said “I am a skier,” and sported a goggle tan that made me look like a raccoon every winter from the hours spent on the mountain. Skiing was my identity and I was damn good at it. I wasn’t a professional, hucking double backflips or dropping insane cliffs, but I could ski just about any line or trail with ease, outpacing most of my ski partners. I loved going fast and finding a rhythm in the turns. 

And then suddenly, the joy was gone. I live within sight of a spectacular ski hill, four miles from my kitchen window and yet I no longer have any desire to be there. And I don't miss it. There are a few common sense reasons why. First, despite my thousands of days of skis, I never once significantly hurt myself. I never blew out a knee or broke a significant bone while skiing. But I was long overdue. There were some really close calls, not just with injury but potential death. In my current life, a blown knee or broken arm is not only a huge expense but it means I can’t work or pay my bills. It is a financial deathblow. I am not young and invincible anymore.

Second, I don’t have time. I just finished building myself a house that took all my free time for two years. I also have a burgeoning music career that fills several nights a week. I have friends I want to see and stuff to do around the house. I have a job that I love. I know that I sound like a boring old grown-up, but I love my current lifestyle and it is rarely boring. Skiing would just cut into that time.

Thirdly, is the ridiculous expense of skiing. When I used to ski every year, I could get a season pass for a couple hundred bucks. Now, in most places the costs have more than doubled. The daily ticket cost has doubled; the equipment is pricey to buy and maintain. The gas costs and time spent commuting are ridiculous. You pay for everything from parking to ski storage. I watch the ski traffic go by and it is just that, traffic. Everywhere is crowded and there is constant competition to ski the best lines before they are gone and the snow sucks. There is a constant pressure to get your money’s worth because it is so darn expensive. I don’t need that kind of competition in my life.

I have started to notice what the ski industry is doing to the places I love. The small mountain towns that used to be sleepy and friendly are now over-bearing and crammed full of the rich leisure class of people who are snobby and expectant. The little family ski hills are being bought and upgraded into luxury resorts. Mountain sides are being cut up into chalets and gated communities. There is a sense of entitlement and inevitability to the nouveau riche who see ski towns as playgrounds and believe that being in the ski community is social status. The dirtbag skiers who live on the edges of society and sacrifice the rest of their life to the altar of skiing are being driven further out, replaced by condominiums and VRBO’s. The edges are polished. The environmental impact is atrocious and the pretentiousness is palpable. It is high fashion, even in the small ski towns like where I live. It is sickening, but too many people are getting rich to really care about the consequences to their environment and community. It bothers me that I lived on the edge of that scene for so long and never acknowledged it. I find it hard to participate now without feeling like I am betraying my neighbors who work hard and don’t need skiing to feel comfortable about their lot in life. 

But more than anything, I gave up skiing because I fell out of love with it. I have tried a couple times to recapture the joy that I used to feel strapping on my boots and hurtling down a mountainside as frigid air rushed through all the holes in my coat. I am grateful for all the time I spent and the friends I shared the slopes with, but now all I feel is chilled and bored. I have done the run a thousand times before and it holds no satisfaction anymore. It is just laps up and down another mountain in the cold. It is a sad and bitter reminder of a past era.

        I hope that those who love skiing never lose it the way I did. I hope that they can endure the hardships that the industry is inflicting on the mountain communities. I hope that those invested in the industry can find a way to make the scene less devastating to the environment. I hope that those in the upper leisure classes can use some of their profit to help others experience skiing for the first time instead of continuing to build private resorts for their own private enjoyment. The mountains are a wonderful and powerful place and should not just be the domain for those who are fortunate enough to afford them. I hope that the gear industry continues to make ski gear safer so that less people end up with blown knees and broken arms. It is already happening. Simultaneously, it seems to get better and worse each year. I just won’t be there for the foreseeable future. Maybe someday, I will rediscover a lost love, but for now, I will cherish the chances I had and focus on doing something else. I will sit at my kitchen window and watch the trail groomers up on the mountain in the dark, then I will turn back to my guitar and chase my other loves of life.

Shredding in the early college days 2009

Tearing it up in British Columbia 2018