UTTERLY UNFAZED Momoyo Magosaki in the bamboo forest of Shiretoko, Hokkaido. Photo: Takahiro Nahanishi YODEL Words KATHERINE MCMAHON I HAVE SKIED one day this season. One. A year ago, I had already 15 under my belt, and one of my best pow days of the season. Do that math. El Niño was on the tips of tongues early season, fostering dreams of stacking snow and broken snow stakes from coast to coast. Yet here we are in early January, staring at snow reports all over the country and realizing that we are all in the same boat, and that thing is docked high and dry. Some of us are praying to the snow gods in our living rooms, others are out there risking life and ACL on white ribbons of death. If this season has taught me one thing, it’s that we are still at the mercy of Mother Nature. If it’s taught me two, it’s paying mind to one of the hardest virtues for any skier to grasp: Patience. I felt the tingles of snow euphoria a week ago. My phone started to receive ping after ping from friends. “Winter is coming!” The reports were in, and all read the same: Snow. I hit the ski hill with expectations of knee-deep giggles and face shots. Instead, I skinned up an ungroomed area with my dog, crunching through crust and feeling like a wobbly fawn as I skied uneven, near bare terrain downhill. Moving over to the open part of the resort, I rode the chairlift up in hopes of finding some secret stashes from the quiet over-night storm. Yet, when I got to the top and peered down, all I saw were moguls that could be mistaken for small package trucks, ice and tree branches. Halfway down my survival run, I took an early season quad burn break and mustered a weak smile as an older gentleman skied up to me. He was grinning from ear to ear and seemed utterly unfazed by the conditions. He looked at me and said, “It might be a bit dicey out here, but it’s also really fun. And just think, once we actually have real snow, we will be much better skiers.” Touché old man. I watched him carry on, cringing as each turn sounded like an ice scraper on a gravel pile, the man yipping as he played his sick game of early winter frogger. I started to pick my own way through the detritus, each turn a little more enjoyable than the last. Today wasn’t going to be the best day ever, but maybe the snow ghost—and all the folks on hill—was onto something. Or maybe they were just all from the East Coast. Either way, they’d stopped compar-ing this season to last, and the one that came before it. I ended my ski day a little sorer than I started, somewhere between frustrated and relieved. Still, I’d arrived at a strange peace, a realization that this season wasn’t last season, and that somehow that was ok. There was still plenty of time, and heck, everybody loves a comeback. 106 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 17, Issue 4: Page 106
