The Ski Journal • Volume 17, Issue 1 • NO MAP FOR THAT

Another chase begins at Schweitzer Mountain Resort, ID. Photo: Andrew Marshall

The groomers danced like fireflies along the inky mountain silhouette. I traced their paths from the other side of frosted windows, trying to place them on my mental trail map as they meandered toward the valley below. Were they grooming out the bumps on Downdraft? Building a park on Rocking Chair? Maybe prepping to make snow on Top Gun?

I don’t have a whole lot of early childhood memories (I’m getting old, guys), but bedtime trail-tracing was once a near-daily tradition for me. Over time it helped me memorize my home mountain in Maine, showing me where I’d been and where I still wanted to go.

Skiing has always felt like that kind of exploration. And, like any aspiring explorer, that experience has often revolved around a map. Snowcat tracking may have been my own stab at mapmaking, but the physical thing has been hard to beat. Origami-ed into a tiny rectangle and unfolding into a world of possibility, it’s hard not to get a little obsessed.

As a kid, I spent hours studying trails, connectors and contours. When one map started to feel tired, I’d crave another, seeking out new mountains and driven to “discover” each ski hill’s hidden treasures. Can I ski all of the double black diamonds at Stratton? How many glades are there at Magic? Cannon has a…tram?! (Quickly scours Encarta for “tram.”)

After helping me push into the personal unknown, these maps would end up on bedroom walls and ski lockers, reminders of the then-exotic reaches of New England that my skis (and my mom) had delivered me to. As college and adulthood rolled around, the radius expanded—Utah, British Columbia, Japan, beyond.

But eventually, those maps started to pour off the page into something else—a ski world less connected by pistes, mountains, or even the towns they rose from, and more by the faces at each stop along the way. Jackson Hole became less about Corbet’s and more about catching a Moose game with Natalie. Palisades has KT-22, but you should really try eating lodge cookies with Mike. Sunday River will always be home, but it only feels that way if Uncle Mark picks me up on his way down Route 27.

Early explorers undoubtedly reached a similar crux (while others went down in a hail of local arrows). Honestly, a flat piece of paper (and even your fancy app) can only lead you to the edge of the page. Even though maps are laced with nostalgia, it’s really us building those memories in 3D, coloring in our own lines with best days, early-ups and even a wind hold or two. Paint me romantic, but that’s pretty friggin’ cool.

With the season of Febreezing ski boots and Nikwaxing that (how old?!) jacket in full swing, we’re starting to pull those maps back out of pockets and off of dorm-room walls. The trail guides may appear identical, but we know that to each of us they’ll all read a little different. What a beautiful thing, ski-migos, to not ski a singular track. This winter, may you chart a course of faces, experiences and those feelings you just can’t quit. Find that line. Don’t worry, we’ll all meet at the bottom.

The Ski Journal - Volume 17, Issue 1

NO MAP FOR THAT

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