The snow has finally fallen and continues to fall and it’s simply too depressing to think, let alone write, about the most recent polls down south showing the presumptive Dictator-in-Chief leading the ancient incumbent.
Instead, let’s consider the senses of skiing—boarding included, of course.
In general, humans have five senses: hearing, sight, smell, touch and taste. While it’s important to bring all available senses to the party when you slide down mountains, adrenaline often overwhelms our ability to tune in to several of them. I think it’s survival kicking in. But as we transition to spring skiing—something we thought we were doing in early February—it’s gratifying to bring all the senses to bear, especially since common sense seems to have little to do with skiing for many on the hill.
Unless you live in a very highly insulated place, hearing is often your first sense to be titillated. To paraphrase Lt. Kilgore, I love the sound of avy bombs in the morning. You know it’s going to be a good day when you hear explosions before your alarm clock.
But it doesn’t stop there. Arriving you’ll often hear the rat-a-tat snapping of boot buckles, the sound of the snow under your boots, a more accurate indication of the temperature and conditions you’ll likely encounter than a thermometer can ever provide. No sound? Soft snow. Squeaking? Brrrr. Loud sound? Ice.
The base of the mountains are loud with animated conversation and the sound of large machinery moving people uphill. Absent that latter sound, the conversation becomes punctuated with frustration and disappointment.
Sight is the heavy hitter while skiing and boarding. I am always in awe of blind skiers on the mountain. If you’re not, try keeping your eyes closed on the widest, most gentle green run you know. Have someone behind you tell you when to turn. If you’re not in awe after that, check for a heartbeat.
That said, most people have far too narrow a focus when they ski. It’s limited to the snow directly in front of them or maybe a couple of turns ahead. As Whistler Blackcomb gets more and more crowded, I find skiing becomes more like riding a motorcycle... extremely defensive. That means seeing everything around you.
But the one thing many people, especially tourists, fail to see is the grandeur around them. Stop somewhere safe. Look around. The mountainscape around us is breathtaking. The storm cycles ripping through the valley are animated. Pack a picnic and find a scenic spot to enjoy lunch without crowding into one of the mountain restaurants. Feast your eyes more than your belly.
One of the signature smells of skiing doesn’t actually involve skiing. It’s the first thing I notice while loading my skis or stowing them in the hotel locker at any ski resort. It’s pervasive in a ski shop where they’re tuning skis. Hot wax. It promises speed and makes me feel like I’m gliding even when I’m not.
The other smells of skiing pale in comparison. Oh there’s the sweet, pungent, Christmassy smell of evergreen, a background smell brought to the foreground when skiing gladed runs so tight needled branches snap at your passing. And there’s the fresh-hung laundry smell of clean air. And the almost effervescent, slightly sweet smell of deep powder invading your nostrils.
The saddest smell is the springtime aroma of damp earth, leaf mould and rotting vegetation emerging from a winter’s snowpack, warnings to get in as many more turns as possible before another season ends.
But to be honest, many of the smells of skiing are not pleasant. The smell of once-a-year skiers in the liftline in front of you who’ve stored their expensive ski suits in mothballs for the last 51 weeks. Or the wet dog smell of stale sweat, wicked-out polypro and damp, steaming wool that sledgehammers like a wall o’ decay stepping into a crowded gondola on a day when the snow falls heavy and the temp hovers just around freezing. On rare, very cold days when wind chill threatens frostbite but the monkey has to be fed, there’s a continuum of displeasing smells from your own breath, captured and filtered by a balaclava frozen into a death mask of foul-smelling ice plastered against your nose.
There are the intrusive, foreign, inappropriate smells others bring to the hill. Women with no sense of place or propriety who’ve bathed in perfume, even the finest of which smells cheap and tawdry in the sparkling environment of a ski hill. The cretinous addict smoking a cigarette on the chair directly in front, leaving a contrail of carcinogens most foul. Or the inconsiderate bro blowing a spliff on the same chair who finishes it before you have a chance to catch up to him.
And then there is the single worst skiing smell. More prevalent in spring when sunscreen is added to the toxic brew, it’s the rank, gangrenous smell permeating sweaty palms slipped out of biohazard gloves never washed once in their long lives.
Enough smell. I’m not sure what the difference is between touch and feel but I know, especially skiing here, if you’re not feeling your way as much as seeing it, there are a lot of days you’re not going to enjoy it here. Variable visibility. Feel the force. The force is gravity. Success skiing or boarding is as much about feel as sight. If you can’t feel the flow of undulating snow through your board(s), boots, feet up to your centre of gravity, if you can’t immediately and automatically kick in your balance in response, your day is going to go downhill in ways you weren’t hoping for.
Trust your feet; your eyes will lie to you, your feet won’t. Don’t believe me? Remember how good people begin to look as closing time gets near? QED.
Finally, what does skiing taste like? Hmmm. Who hasn’t cocked their head back when the flakes are floating down the size of saucers, opened their mouth and bobble-headed themselves to catch fresh snow on their tongue? Or found their mouth full of fresh powder when they didn’t see the ditch they just face-planted in? Reached for a handful of snow to cut the taste of last night’s overindulgence come to life on a lung-searing, non-stop romp to the bottom?
But really, what skiing tastes like is après. The unfettered, guiltless joys of inhaling that first frosty beverage on a crowded patio, hoovering nachos, phantom tasting the burgers you smell cooking on the outdoor grill. Skiing tastes great. You’ve burned the calories. You deserve to indulge that sense.
And you need to indulge all your senses when you’re on the mountains.
