Skiing

Skiing is a paradox in that, like golf, it is a sport where the better you get, the worse you become. These so-called leisure activities are arguably the biggest sources of stress for middle class white men outside of our jobs. Yet each remains a massive seasonal industry that draws hundreds and hundreds of people to resorts, clubs, and competitions every weekend.

It was among such a drove of weekend warriors that I found myself in late February of this year. Sandwiched between an Audi Q7 and a BMW X5, I was alone in my 2001 Audi A3 on my way to St. Anton am Arlberg, chasing a snowstorm that had piled over two feet of snow on the Alps rising around me. It was a Friday morning and I did not leave my reasonably priced but physically distant Airbnb early enough to beat the majority of the crowds trying to do the same thing as me. I blame it on my very tiring 4 day work week and rolling into my rented room late on Thursday night. The trip that Google Maps claimed would take about an hour fifteen the night prior was now in its 90^th minute; the app constantly diverted me through side streets and into towns as the main highway became more and more congested. It is an interesting phenomenon that I experienced before in Austria, where multiple people’s navigation systems update at roughly the same time and divert massive waves of traffic off at random exits to circumvent the slow parts of the highway and rejoin later. This time, I drove under an arch and through a historic town square, Audi and BMW SUVs with me the whole way.

I finally did make it to the sprawling resort and fought for a place to park. The lot I settled on had no markings on it whatsoever and nobody directing traffic, so I found a likely space, got out, and strapped into my boots as quickly as I could.

The first run of the day is one of the most stressful. The anticipation builds all the way up the lift, and unlike the east coast mountains I grew up skiing where there was but one or two lifts for the entire mountain, Alpine resorts may require you to take multiple lifts to get to the section where you want to ski. Therefore, on the lift ride up scoping potential spots to drop slightly off piste, you see countless tempting locations that you know you will not get the chance to hit that day for you have your eyes set on the bigger prize. That prized location for me was Zurs, a set of lifts me and a buddy had scoped out on a trip on worse snow earlier in the season. With the new snowfall, Zurs promised to be a prime location for some powder runs.

I had to take about 4 separate lifts to get to Zurs and managed to ski a little bit in between. I have a habit of sending the first run of the day, picking an aggressive line and setting the tone. No warming up here, just going into the deepest snow I can find to see how it feels on that given day. I ventured off piste and was able to cut a couple decent turns, but felt that I had performed better last time I skied powder. I took a couple turns too quickly followed by a couple slow ones, messing up my float and not creating that beautiful, symmetric snake that trails the best skiers up the mountain. That is the price of even a limited amount of knowledge-here I was, skiing on snow unimaginable to 15 year old me on his local hill, and I was upset with my first run of the day. Catch the lift to the other side of the valley, refocus, and understand how lucky you are to be here, Henry.

In order to be a true hard charger and ski like you see in ski films, you either need to do the same run multiple times to plot out your route, have a spotter telling you what to expect, or be a true local who knows the ins and outs of the mountain the way I know how to drive to Schenectady without paying the 55 cent toll off of the Interstate. Skiing alone with only one day to spare, I had none of those advantages. Sitting on top of a steep off piste run, you often can’t see below large rises in the terrain. Is it a cliff that must be avoided (somewhat rare but still scary) or simply a piece of hilly microterrain you can send it off of? Additionally, in traveling off piste, what did it mean if there are no tracks ahead of you? Would you end up skiing into a valley that you would have to hike out of, effectively ending your $70 day? I stood at the top of the Zurs lift, considering these questions as I stared at a trail map and watched people who looked experienced hike off in all different directions. I made the fateful decision to hike off the back side of the peak following two Austrians wearing “Zurs Freeride Guide” jackets. If there was anybody who knew where to go, it would be them.

The path we hiked along was doable without skins or touring bindings since it had been traveled a good many times already that day. This was the only time I was happy I decided to wear my helmet on that day-one misstep could lead off the steep side of the slope we were walking across. My skiing spirit animal is the older guy who is shredding tight turns with his feet stuck together, elbows out, wearing some sunglasses and maybe a headband. In practice, I usually wear a beanie with goggles and ski larger turns thanks to my oversized Black Crows; this is all to say that the helmet was an anomaly for me and worn because I knew I’d be alone off piste. In all, I probably traveled almost a kilometer away from the main slope into an area that was so quiet and peaceful, I was wont to ski away. However, I had to hustle my way around a group of Italian men who had clearly bitten off a bit more than they could chew with the hike and were loudly commenting on all aspects of their adventure. There were many points where I had seen people leave the hiking path to ski down, but I could not really see where any of the paths led and was driven to hike as far as the path would take me.

I am grateful that I did. Eventually, I reached the end of the hiking path and found knee deep powder that probably less than 20 people had skied prior to me that day. I found some snow on the outside that I was able to cut fresh tracks in the upper half of the run, letting my skis bounce with the rhythm of the turns and feeling nothing but pure joy at the opportunity to ski a line like this in the Alps. At the bottom of this first stretch, I had to hike a bit more to get to the next drop, but I took my time to look up at the various lines cut before by the people who had chosen different drop-ins off of the hiking path. All were gorgeous, and I now know the place to go next time St. Anton gets some snow.

The next portion was even better. I had to choose twice between some divergent paths and stayed as far to my left as possible each time. I was eventually able to see that where I was opened up into a giant bowl that had the tracks of many skiers before me. Looking across, I was able to see two fellow skiers about to drop in and I took a few pictures for scale. I was glad I stayed left, for I was able to find a shallow couloir that had yet to be skied that day. I spent a good amount of time at the top, catching my breath to ensure a smooth run all the way down and preparing for the drop.

I went in. It was steep, the snow was not pure, light powder but had no ice in it and gave good float, it was deep, and I descended. Snow was sliding down next to me, matching my rate of speed, some falling faster, some falling behind. I thought about how this must be how avalanches begin, with the top layer going and then the whole sheet sliding out from underneath you. I was not afraid, simply enjoying every moment, living in every turn as the Crows and I slushed our way down. I reached the bottom, too soon, too soon, stopped, turned, and looked back up.

The terrible truth is that my turns were not as round as I wanted them to be. I charged just a little bit too fast down my couloir and could see the evidence right there in front of me. This was the paradox of skiing-I had just enjoyed the greatest run of my life, yet I knew that I could have done better.

I did not let it get to me. The good outweighed the bad. I was not going to let myself be the grumpy middle aged golfer who returns from the links more irritated than he left. I recognized the fact that I was gifted a rare day many skiers never get to experience. With that, I followed a hiking path all the way down the valley, paralleling a creek for quite some distance until I finally found a main, groomed path. I got on a random lift and found a slopeside restaurant to park myself and reflect.

Naturally, I ordered a Campari Soda while I caught my breath. I was sweaty and exhausted but supremely satisfied. As always, the people watching at the restaurant/bar was fantastic. Apres style is one of my favorite vibes. It would take me another couple of lifts and a bus ride to get back to where I started, so given the time, another run down that beautiful bowl was out of the question-I wouldn’t have made it in time. It was really an entire day devoted to one run, and I was not upset about it whatsoever. While imperfect, it was the perfect way to cap off a season.