Words: Kade Krichko 2023-01-23 09:54:17
Thomas Harding and Randy Speers reaching for the sun on a winter’s day at the LQ Outpost Hut south of Naksup, BC. Photo: Ryan Creary Skiing is a sport built on instant gratification. The speed. The turn. The face shot. The feeling of floating through air like we’ll never come down. Acute flashes of joy powerful enough to steer our careers, our area codes, our relationships. It’s a vice that brings us to some of the most beautiful places on the planet, searing those moments of perfection so deeply into our memory banks that we almost forget about the miles, dollars and sweat it took to get there. I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t skied enough powder, that I’ll likely never, ever ski enough powder. But I’ve started to feel like these gravity-induced pleasure bursts are the equivalent of skiing’s boy-band crush. Their intense pangs excite my senses, but they last a couple of days, then leave me wanting more. Maybe I’m getting older, but, Skiing, I have to tell you something: I’m here for the real thing. I want that steady, slow-burn love. That lock-me-down-and-throw-away-the-key love. And, after years of searching, I think I’ve actually found it. My heart has fluttered at Hyak (aka Summit East), in 34-degree frozen fog just an hour from home. I’ve been smitten on the bunny hill at nearby Summit West. I’ve even fallen head over boots on a slushy piste in the Pyrenees. These are the moments when I’ve realized our sport’s greatest gift isn’t found in experiencing joy, it’s in giving it away. Like most good things, my path to alpine fulfillment started on the skin track. I’d grown up skiing with my sister Kori, but when I got her on a loaner AT setup a few years ago, I witnessed her being born again. She’d moved away from the mountains years ago, but suddenly she couldn’t stop smiling as she skipped uphill, her energy turning “just another day” into an electric shock. I kept the burn going with my little sister Kal, then my dad. Soon I was dragging friends up to ski short, steep shots at Hyak and snowplowing the beginner superhighway with first-timing neighbors at West. Unlike my internal hard drive of powder slashes and “best days ever,” the feeling of connecting people with the sport, our sport, has been an ember putting off a consistent, unwavering heat—a burn that is as satisfying as it is motivating. My friends will occasionally lament that they’re slowing me down. What I don’t think they realize is how much they’re filling me up. I’ve started picking up extra poles from Goodwill and snagging a few hand warmers at day lodges. I try to keep a small stash of buddy passes in my glove box and still refuse to throw away my clapped-out skins. You never know when somebody might say, “Today is the day.” I want to be there when they do. It’s brave to learn something new later in life, but it’s even braver to find happiness in it. The mountains can be an intimidating place, but wouldn’t it be great if they didn’t have to be? Sure, we could do without the ski traffic, but how amazing would it be if the crowded resorts were actually our fault? That we got too many people hooked on this pleasure pursuit of ours? That we had too many friends to share our best days ever with? Wouldn’t that be something? To leave the hill feeling like everyone should be so lucky, not just the lucky few?
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SLOW BURN
https://digital.theskijournal.com/articles/slow-burn