Powder to the People
There’s a lot about powder snow to recommend it. It’s natural, for one thing. And fresh. And clean. And sparkly. And it doesn’t hurt so much when you fall. But true aficionados will tell you it’s about a lot more than that.
"Powder skiing… is… the finest variety of skiing there is. To us powder means freedom, with an emphasis, not on how you do it, just doing it more… it is beyond equipment, form, all the dos and don’ts of ski instruction. Perhaps more important powder skiing means getting away from the crowd to a place where there are no lines, no lift towers, no snow fences, no bodies in the way. Just snow. It’s another world." — POWDER Magazine, introduction to the first issue, 1972
"The true skier does not follow where others lead. He is not confined to a piste. He is an artist who creates a lovely pattern from virgin and uncorrupted snow. What marble is to the sculptor, so is a ridge covered in powder to the true skier. Snow whose beauty has been destroyed by a multitude of piste skiers does not record the passage of another. Only soft snow records the movements of individual skiers, and it is only in soft snow that the real artist can express himself." — Arnold Lunn, The Mountains of Youth, 1925
An essay by Leslie Anthony
There’s a lot about powder snow to recommend it. It’s natural, for one thing. And fresh. And clean. And sparkly. And it doesn’t hurt so much when you fall. But true aficionados will tell you it’s about a lot more than that.
There’s a certain transcendence to moving through powder that cuts to the heart of the entire ski experience, something that can’t adequately be explained, and ultimately, must be experienced to fully understand. Famously, many authors have stated that explaining powder skiing to someone who hasn’t done it is like trying to explain sex to a virgin. This certain truth may also be a tired cliché, but I’m going to try to explain it anyway.
Powder skiing is about words and being unable to speak. About telling but being unable to describe. About the silence that surrounds you—but how that quiet somehow amplifies the pounding of your heart, the rasping of your breath, the wind in the trees.
It’s about involuntary grunts of effort and unconscious squeals of delight. It’s about inspiration. Desperation. Bad poetry. Broken marriages. A dozen magazines. Grins. Silliness. Frozen toes and ice-cream headaches. Magical turns.
That sinking feeling and momentary weightlessness. First tracks and lost skis. About trudging, navigating and riding over, through and around boilerplate, sastrugi, crust, slab, crud and all manner of bad snow just to get to the good stuff. It’s a way of feeling. A way of thinking. A way of life. A way of sharing.
