New Day, New Year

In the thick of a very busy holiday season here at Okemo Mountain Resort in Vermont, I was treated to an exceptional sunrise this morning on my way to work. Luckily enough, I had my camera with me and was able to capture the image of the sun working its way through the cloud cover of the Connecticut River Valley. This stretch of time has been particularly busy for me and for Okemo, busy in a good way but in a way that does require a lot of energy. So, as has been the case for many years now, I'll be heading off to bed early instead of participating in more conventional New Years Eve festivities. A good dinner with friends and a good night's sleep is all I need, and I'll awake in 2011 looking forward to all that the new year has to offer.

Best wishes to all of my friends, family, colleagues, and guests for a healthy and happy 2011. May your year be filled with powder dreams realized and plenty of time spent playing outdoors in the mountains.

What’s a Cubit?

Let me be unambiguous: conditions at Okemo continue to be quite good, but the weather has been absolutely awful for the last two days. After a great several days of cold weather perfect for making outstanding quality snow last week, we've watched as much of our operations' team hard work has washed down our mountain and out into Vermont's rivers in a torrent. There were white caps in the Black River today, for crying out loud. Thankfully, Old Man Winter returned from his trip to Minneapolis this afternoon, bringing with him some natural snow and more cold weather.

Skiing in the rain is one of the hazards of being an instructor for a living. When even the most die-hard devotees take one look outside and opt instead for playing Parcheesi by the roaring fire, we're out there making it happen for whoever was so unaware of the forecast or who was so unfamiliar with skiing generally that they elect to take lessons in a downpour. The burden falls on the instructors to remain upbeat, to stay focused on the bright side, or simply to fake enthusiasm for the benefit of the guests while dreaming of a dry change of clothes. The truth is that once we're out in it, the snow can be a lot of fun when it's raining so while we may be reluctant to get out there, we enjoy it in the end. It's much like swimming in a cold murky lake – dip a toe in the water, hesitate, count to three five or six times before jumping in, and you later realize that it was far better than you imagined.

Having said all of this, when it rains like it has in the past 48 hours, I always am reminded of Bill Cosby's classic monologue about Noah and the ark. As a kid, my whole family would sit around and listen to the LP recording of it and never tired of asking in a booming, holier-than-thou voice "Noah, how long can you tread water?" Here's a link to a youtube recording of the whole thing. I'm not sure if it's a legal recording or not, I'm not sure who took the time to upload it, and it's just audio and no video, but it's worth a listen. It reminds me how amazingly funny Cosby was and still is, and it always makes me laugh on a rainy day like this one. Enjoy.

Flipping the Switch

It's winter, as of this week and just in the nick of time. Our traditional pre-Thanksgiving opening here at Okemo on the third weekend of November was delayed this year due to what we still call "unseasonably warm" weather. At some point, I suppose, we'll have to relent and declare this the normal state of affairs in the 21st century climate of New England. In any event, two weeks ago I road biked comfortably in shorts and a short sleeve jersey, and last weekend we had our annual 'train-the-trainers' meeting for the Okemo Ski + Ride School indoors because of the lack of snow. The resort opened this past Tuesday with one trail and 'sporting' conditions, but cold temperatures hit hard and our snowmaking team has been working around the clock. This weekend many families have descended upon Okemo to ski and ride off their Thanksgiving feasts on several trails. All were rewarded with what was originally supposed to be a squall that stuck around all afternoon and has been dropping snow on us in some real quantity. It's as though when we turned on the compressors to get ready for snowmaking last weekend, we flipped the switch and turned on winter itself. Add to that the number of people bringing life and energy to our base lodge and the shops in town, and it really does feel like the season has started. We anticipate adding more terrain daily to our trail count and settling in for the long haul of a great season, and everyone, myself included, is excited for the winter to be under way. Finally.

Not-So-New School

New school, old school, blue school, red school;
Telemark, alpine, snowboard, bar stool.

I do realize that 'bar stool' makes no sense here. I may not be much of a poet, but I've been frustrated lately and 'bar stool' is the best I can do. At least it rhymes with 'school'. In any event, at the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man, what's frustrating me is the near-sighted sense of history among young skiers. There can be no doubt that Shane McConkey was an inspiring athlete who pushed the boundaries of our sport and that his death was a terrible loss. He did not, however, start a revolution. Perhaps it's a matter of pre-digital age exploits not finding as much of an audience with young people, making it difficult for them to have a broader perspective. It may bring grins to my friends' faces when I pull out VHS copies of Greg Stump movies, but when young folks at Treble Cone who aspire to fame and fortune in big mountain skiing tell me that they've never heard of Scott Schmidt, it makes my skin crawl. He was in Powder Magazine center folds, for crying out loud! Last winter, one of our young American instructors at Okemo who has been a life-long skier admitted to having never heard of Bill Johnson or (deep breath here) Franz Klammer! That one nearly gave me a heart attack with visions of being greeted by Sondre Norheim at the pearly gates. Wow, pass me the schnapps, some aquavit, slivovitz, or zirbengeist; pass me something!

At the end of the day, I take solace in the simple fact that most of us are still out there skiing for the same reason people have for generations - in the half-pipe, the woods, the race course, the park, the groomers, the bunny hill, and in the backcountry. Even at its most utilitarian, skiing always has brought joy and inspired passion in people. Simple folk, new school pioneers, downhill legends, and numerous other people far more accomplished, far more articulate, and far more influential in the world than I am all have written passionately about skiing for centuries. My favorite among these forefathers is Fridtjof Nansen.

Nansen was a scholar, athlete, explorer, writer, diplomat, humanitarian, one of the fathers of modern Norway, a Nobel Laureate, and in his spare time he was the first man to cross Greenland. Skiers are most familiar with his line that "It is better to go skiing and think of God, than go to church and think of sport." His seminal book First Crossing of Greenland (Pá Ski over Grønland), recounting Nansen's 1888 crossing of Greenland, is an absolute classic. This treasure trove of skiing wisdom resonates even now, and Nansen's words help to inspire me as I await the start of another season:

Of all the sports of Norway, 'skilobning' is the most national and characteristic, and I cannot think that I go too far when I claim for it, as practised in our country, a position in the very first rank of the sports of the world. I know no form of sport which so evenly develops the muscles, which renders the body so strong and elastic, which teaches so well the qualities of dexterity and resource, which in an equal degree calls for decision and resolution, and which gives the same vigour and exhilaration to mind and body alike. Where can one find a healthier and purer delight than when on a brilliant winter day one binds one's 'ski' to one's feet and takes one's way out into the forest? Can there be anything more beautiful than the northern winter landscape, when the snow lies foot-deep, spread as a soft white mantle over field and wood and hill? Where will one find more freedom and excitement than when one glides swiftly down the hillside through the trees, one's cheek brushed by the sharp cold air and frosted pine branches, and one's eye, brain, and muscles alert and prepared to meet every unknown obstacle and danger which the next instant may throw in one's path? Civilisation is, as it were, washed clean from the mind and left far behind with the city atmosphere and city life; one's whole being is, so to say, wrapped in one's 'ski' and the surrounding nature. There is something in the whole which develops soul and not body alone. Nansen, Fridtjof, First Crossing of Greenland (Pá Ski over Grønland), 1890.

Sounds perfect. I can't wait.

Daydreaming

I'm in Vermont, but at times my mind and my heart are far away from here – far in a geographical sense, far in a visceral sense, and far in terms of time. In shoulder season, sandwiched between my Southern Hemisphere winters in Wanaka, New Zealand and my Northern Hemisphere winters in Vermont, I do manage to keep reasonably busy. I have plenty of work to do to get ready for the upcoming season at Okemo, plenty of people to catch up with after several months overseas, and generally enough to occupy my time. Still, there are moments, whole days sometimes, when I'm not exactly present. When the weather comes in – as it has a great deal this fall – and I stay indoors to exercise instead of outdoors where I prefer, I drift to those faraway places and times, places real and imaginary, where my ski dreams have been or will be fulfilled. Yes, there are moments when those dreams may shift to a tropical beach with warm iridescent blue waters, but it's the skiing in my dreams that really transports me.

I've been very fortunate in my adult life to have spent time skiing in some extraordinary places in some truly astonishingly dry, incredibly deep powder snow. I remember those days and the people I shared them with in exceptional detail. Zermatt with Matt and Jason, many Vail days with a big posse, Taos with Steve, Utah solo, the Cariboos with Peter, White Face with the team, a couple of otherworldly days with Terry at Mad River, and one particular day at Treble Cone with Tyler that included a run in the Motatapu Chutes with Tim that was absolutely ridiculous. There are more, many more memories, and many more yet to come.

Today has been a dark, windy, classic Vermont November day complete with temperatures hovering around the freezing mark, snow at higher elevations and rain in town. I've been far less productive than I'd like in the sense of ticking things off my to-do list. But, in terms of dreaming deep powder dreams and contemplating the universe of snowy possibilities, I've accomplished a great deal from my seat on the couch. Thankfully, when I fall into this far-away powder daze, I now have youtube to feed the monster. If you're feeling a bit down, a bit like the concrete jungle, the Eastern dank, or the treadmill of life is getting to you, give yourself a moment and consider what's out there yet to experience through your skis or boards and the people who share your passion for them. Then, watch this video from Team Thirteen called "Deep Powder Skiing at Bridger Bowl: Part 1". It's been around a while, it may actually make you cry, and it definitely renders me less present than I felt before watching it; but, I do hope you'll agree that it's worth it.

We have just a couple of weeks to go before the ski season begins and I hope that we'll be reminded that real life can at times really come close to our dreams, especially the powdery ones.

Man in the State of Nature

Deep in the recesses of my mind, buried somewhere in between college memories of fraternity basements, cocktail parties, far away ski races, and introductory lectures on Buddhism, lies some rudimentary understanding of the competing theories of man in the state of nature. The great philosophers of the Enlightenment, Voltaire, Rousseau, Locke, even Machiavelli and Calhoun, all began with some premise of what mankind's natural social state would be if left undisturbed. (Undisturbed by what, I do not know. Aliens maybe? That information is lost in my brain somewhere in the shadows cast by too many macroeconomics lectures.). In general, the question the Enlightenment thinkers sought to answer is whether man is by nature a rugged individualist, hunting and gathering for his own welfare and that of his offspring; a hierarchical social being, falling into a rigid structure of division of labor; or a truly social being, doing work for the benefit of all members of an interdependent community. Bear with me here, believe it or not I do have a point to make about the ski business.

The ski business is at its core a people business. Parking attendants, equipment rental staff, ticket sellers and checkers, lifties, baristas, patrollers, everyone contributes to the nature and quality of each guest's experience by the way in which we behave and present ourselves, the way in which we interact with each guest. At Treble Cone, each and every season pass holder, every local, and all of the staff have intense feelings of loyalty and even ownership of the place. At TC we approach guest service with the mindset of being stewards of the mountain itself, with the obligation to care for it, to welcome others, and to share it with them as though it is our own. At Okemo, the nature of the feelings underlying our guest service may differ slightly but the central importance and emphasis on guest service, and the energy and enthusiasm we put into it, is the best in the business. If welcoming Treble Cone devotees is like throwing an open-fire lamb roast in a remote spot open to Zealots only, Okemo is more akin to welcoming good folks and their families to our nice neighborhood for a home-style BBQ. In each case, the end result is the same. In each place, it's about group effort, group commitment, and collective experience. Good service from all corners of a resort provided to guests of every sort is what makes the experience of skiing and riding at the two resorts where I work so valued by our guests, and it is what distinguishes both places from our competition. Yes, the terrain at TC is incomparable. Yes, the grooming, snowmaking and lift systems at Okemo are the best in the business. Yes, those elements are what may bring first-time guests our way. But it's the experiences our guests have while there that really differentiates us in both cases, our service makes them feel differently about their time with us than they would elsewhere. It's as though the resorts articulate their concept of man in the state of nature (how people behave, what they want / need, how they experience their environment) and establishes its ethos of guest service accordingly, making sure the entire staff drinks the Kool-Aid, so to speak.

Management consulting-type platitudes and far-fetched academic analogies aside, developing and maintaining a consistent ethos of service is the essential ingredient of having any successful guest-centered approach to a business. It also makes for a very intense social environment for those of us working in it (that's social as in interactive, not social as in a non-stop Happy Hour). Ski and snowboard instructors, as an aside, have a role unique in that our time with each guest tends to be far longer, far more personal and detailed, and far more interactive with each guest we encounter. An instructor's business is not merely about guest service, it's about guest relationships – our relationships with our guests, with their families, with their love of skiing and riding, and with their enjoyment of being active outdoors in the mountains. It's great but it is very, very intense. Thankfully, now that my Southern Winter season is over and I have a little over a month before the next season begins, I get a good, long break in the action.

If, as in the case of most social theories that generalize human behavior, the reality of man's natural social state is a hybrid of those Enlightenment theories, in this shoulder season I definitely move from being in a state focused on other people to one that clearly is more focused on my needs. It's about me for a change. Actually, it's more about those people for whom I care a great deal in ways beyond mere enjoyment, conscientious teaching and a professional sense of responsibility. Do not misunderstand me: I greatly enjoy working in a guest service business; I derive enormous satisfaction from getting to know my students and other guests and from working to enhance their experience, forging relationships unlike anything else in the resort business. It's just that it's really nice to turn the switch off, to interact with people (or not) on a purely personal level. Novel enough, I even get to be the recipient of guest service from time to time. I eat, sleep, bike, socialize, collect my thoughts, heal my body, rest my mind and remember why I'm here in the first place.

Long before Okemo's November opening, I'll have had enough 'me time' and I'll be ready again to find the joys of working so hard for everyone else's ski experiences. My down-time, my shifting to ruggedly individual hunter gatherer / cyclist / sloth for a while will, I hope, better enable me to devote myself fully to the rest of society when it appears in Ludlow, Vermont en masse for the holiday season. Besides, six weeks without skiing is enough. Bring on the next season!

The Passion Litmus Test

Devoted skiers and riders will make turns on anything resembling snow if need be, and the 2010 season in Wanaka proved it. A remarkable amount of snow fell on the peaks surrounding town before the local resorts opened for the season. Then nothing. For over a month. A long, dry month. Devotees made turns on some terrain in July that could charitably have been described as "sketchy". Early August brought some respite, but a constant freeze and thaw cycle made off-piste terrain a bit like the surface of the moon at times, and the cover on all of our terrain barely serviceable at others. Conditions presented real technical challenges to even the best of us, and they required what I'd describe as a particularly sporting mindset to make the most of a tough situation and enjoy it. In reality, the 2010 season was a test, a litmus test, lying in wait for all of us in order to measure just how much we love it. In the middle of September, the test commenced in earnest.

For those who were there and need a reminder and for those of you who missed it, several large storms battered the Southern Alps in rapid succession for more than two weeks in the middle of September. For the first week of the cycle, my home field Treble Cone received snow on all but a couple of days, with only rare breaks of sunshine and decent visibility. The total snow accumulation will be disputed and exaggerated for many years to come, but suffice it to say that we were positively transported, receiving more snow in that period than in the entire rest of the season combined. Snow fell straight down in buckets, dropping in large, dry flakes from the top to the bottom of our mountain in a way we're more accustomed to seeing in Utah, Alberta or Hokkaido.

One preliminary question gnawed at all of us working at Treble Cone: Where were all the people? At times, our mountain seemed like one giant secret stash, with the few lucky souls who came to ski and ride with us unwilling to spread the news, determined to keep the remarkable conditions to themselves. The real, deeper question, and the essential component of our litmus test was this: Who among us, despite the late date, despite the malaise of a sub-par season, and despite our readiness for warmer weather and a change of activity, could muster the enthusiasm appropriate for a once-in-a-decade storm cycle that blessed us with snow that was as consistently as dry, light and deep as we may ever see at Treble Cone? Had our passion been so strained, our energy so sapped by the 2010 season that we wouldn't be able to giggle, hoop and holler, show off our orthodonture, and exhaust our bodies while refueling our spirits in the way only great powder days can? Did we have enough enthusiasm left to percolate through the malaise and burst through the surface, showing in our faces and our spirits?

For those of us who work in our ski boots full-time, there are good days and bad. On the bad days, we set courses, pull sleds, fix lifts, groom trails, make snow, and ski in slow wedge turns in the pouring rain on ice, in slush, and on thin cover. On the good days, we'll make fresh tracks to ensure guest safety, free ski with hard charging athletes, and help people realize their powder dreams with better skiing. And then there are the great days, the memorable days, the days that feed our souls and renew our spirits. On those days, there is a little bit of work, there are a few people around, and there is more than enough deep, fresh snow for all of us. Those days rekindle our love of the sport all over again as we ski for ourselves and for the pure joy of it. At the end of the long 2010 season at Treble Cone, we were rewarded with several great days, epic days. Those of us still around to enjoy them, those of us who still were able to draw on a reserve of enthusiasm, passion and energy for our sport were blessed with memories that will stay with us for years to come. We passed the test, and the next time we're out all day in the rain, in the cold, and in the wind, we'll stay warmer and drier having done so. And we may even smile remembering how great it was as we look off to the horizon in anticipation.

In the Bag



Sunset over Fox Glacier township

There It Goes. Another winter is in the bag. Done. Gone. Finito. Caput. Treble Cone closed for the season on October 3^rd after a flurry of a finish. My tenure there has not been that long, but I can only assume that this September was one of the best ever on record. It was awesome on any scale, with a stretch of two weeks of constant snowstorms where the powder was shockingly good. And then sun came out for a few days, and then it ended.

On Monday the 4^th of October, I played my annual, ritual round of golf with my good friend and kids program counterpart Nick. We had a perfect day for it – sunshine, warm but not hot, light breeze – and we managed to not discuss work or even skiing for the whole round (remarkable considering that we're both ski instructors). It was the perfect way to close things. And then I went to the beach, sort of.

Following closing day at Treble Cone and the aforementioned golfing ritual, I heeded the advice of Horace Greeley and headed west. Haast Beach, which sits on the rugged West Coast facing the Tasman Sea, is a beautiful three hour drive from Wanaka. Once near the headwaters of Lake Wanaka in Makarora, the ecology changes quickly and dramatically. While in and around the town of Wanaka, including where Treble Cone is located, the khaki-colored tussock dominates the hillsides and the tree line is very close to the lake level, by the time one arrives at Makarora everything has started to turn green. Travel up over the Haast Pass on the way to the coast, and the green becomes iridescent in spring, with water flowing everywhere and native trees working their way up the slopes of the mountains still clinging to their snowy caps. It's stunning.

After Haast, I turned north towards Fox Glacier, home of one of very few glaciers in the world that is actually still growing. My point is not to regale with stories of what I've been up to, but to convey the sense of release we all have after a long season finishes. It's a wonderful thing to be able to simply pack up a car, head in a general direction, and find and learn things about a new and different countryside with the time to appreciate it.

For now, I'm in "shoulder season", a brief respite from my Endless Winter. My next ski season is just over a month away at home in Vermont, and I'll be ready. Until then, it's all about flip flops for me.

The Fox Glacier



Haast River near Pleasant Flats



View of Mount Tasman (left) and Mount Cook over Lake Matheson





Gillespie Beach, where the Fox River enters the Tasman Sea



The Ongoing Storm

More than a week. With nine days to go in the 2010 season at Treble Cone, a season which has not exactly been a blockbuster for snow, we're in the middle of a storm cycle that has been ongoing for more than a week. It's essentially been snowing every other day for nine days, the temperatures have remained good and cold so that the snow has been very dry and very powdery, and it has gotten deep, very deep. The Saddle Basin remains closed due to avalanche danger and high winds, but with only a few die-hards still charging hard on our expert terrain, there are still plenty of fresh tracks for everyone. We're pinching ourselves down here, and the storm isn't over yet. I had hoped to post some better 'glory in the deep pow' photos, but my priority has been squarely placed on getting in my own turns and not stopping to take snaps. I have some thoughts to share once the storm clears, the season ends, and the sun comes out, but until then these photos that I took last Monday will have to suffice. In the meantime, as my friend Michelle said on Treble Cone's snow report this week, it's time to exercise the powder clause in your contracts. Get a good night's sleep, get to the hill early and make a meal of it. The skiing and riding at TC remains outstanding by anyone's measure and there's precious little time to waste.

Post Script: Whole Lot of Shakin' Going On

Strong aftershocks from last week's major earthquake in Canterbury continue to shake the people in Christchurch - shaking them physically and psychologically, rattling everyone's state of mind. It is literally unsettling for them and for all of the people here in Wanaka with friends and family there (Christchurch is a six hour drive from here). New Zealand is a small community so the well-worn concept of six degrees of separation is more like three here, and the situation in Christchurch has affected everyone in this country.

In yet another, slightly more entertaining occurrence, Treble Cone's neighbor resort Cardrona remains closed, as it has for a few days. It's not due to high winds or avalanche danger, rather it is due to their septic system. I wish I were joking here. I'm unsure of the details, but basically until Cardrona is able to fix their septic, none of the water is drinkable, they can't cook or clean anything and, when they do fix it, they'll have to completely sanitize the whole place. While TC is a vastly larger resort in terms of acreage, Cardrona serves a much larger crowd than we do, employing a much larger staff to do so. Cardrona is also a much easier mountain to ski and ride, so the many Cardrona guests arriving at Treble Cone over the last few days has been of a different nature than our usual - many more lower intermediate and beginning skiers and riders have been taking lessons, many more people are consulting our trail maps, and many more people are finding out just how crowded and impersonal their normal snow sports haunt can be (relative to ours, of course).

All kidding aside, having such a major part of the industry unable to conduct business with a month yet to go in the season is not good for any of us. Several days of exceptionally good business at this late time of the season may be great for Treble Cone - great for the bottom line and a great opportunity to show how good we can be to a whole wider range of people - but I truthfully wouldn't wish this kind of problem on anyone. So, I do hope that Cardies is able to clean up their act, literally and figuratively.

The photo is of the Treble Cone summit slopes as the overnight cloud-cover passed through mid- morning today.

Natural Forces

One of the fundamental truths people find while living and working in big mountains is that we are not in charge. However you might characterize or contemplate those forces in the universe greater than mankind, the fact that we are not in charge is a welcome and humbling reminder for each of us. The last few days here on the South Island have brought this idea into the rarified light of day.

As has been widely reported in the international press over the last few days, an earthquake struck the South Island in the early hours of Saturday morning. Registering at 7.4 on the Richter Scale, it struck in the countryside just west of Christchurch, the largest city here. Damage was substantial but, thankfully, none were killed. Here in Wanaka, I was bounced up and down on my bed as though my neighbors put their mega-bass speakers right up against my wall. Seriously, I literally was bouncing on the bed.

The Saturday that followed the quake was among the best ski days of the season at Treble Cone. It was cloudless, the air remained cold and windless, and we'd had quite a bit of snow in the days before. Though we had prepared ourselves for an onslaught of people taking advantage of the perfect weather and awesome conditions, there was plenty of elbow room to enjoy our mountain. In one of the more delightful ironies of the season, I ripped around our legendary off-piste terrain leading a training clinic for our instructors on the (non-seismic) natural forces that affect us when we ski. I ended the day sitting outside on the porch of a pub in town with a cold beer, contemplating life while watching the sun set behind the mountains that surround Lake Wanaka. That was yesterday. Today the natural forces at work have been quite a bit different.

This morning, Sunday, when I awoke for work the wind was howling and the house was shaking from a massive storm. Treble Cone is essentially a well-appointed remote mountain outpost, so in strong winds our lifts often go on hold or simply shut for the day (See "Shutting it Down"). This morning, interestingly enough, our operations team couldn't even get to TC to assess the safety of operating the lifts. A huge rock slide at Glendhu Bay rendered the road impassable, so neither the staff nor our guests would have been able to even get to the bottom of our access road. The photos of the TC team standing around in the middle of the road ogling the VW-sized boulders are entertaining but for the fact that it meant we couldn't do our jobs. In retrospect, with the wind and rain that followed, there's a strong likelihood that the resort would have had to remain closed anyway. Regardless, the fact is that it was the landslide that caused us to pull the plug. We're way beyond merely using our awareness of natural forces to improve our understanding of ski technique here.

So, earthquakes, landslides, gales, rain, snow, and likely floods, throw in frogs, locusts, darkness, blood, slaying of the first born and it sounds like we are developing the plot for a biblical epic staring Charlton Heston. The problem is that it's the wrong time of year for recounting the plagues upon Egypt – that's the Jewish Passover holiday in the Northern Spring. At this time of year Judaism celebrates the anniversary of the creation of the world. Normally we don't really need literal reminders of the power behind creation or the fact that, in a sense, here in New Zealand the world is still being created, but we've just gotten a few of them. I just hope we can move along to some better spring weather and enjoy the last month of skiing without further scenes from the Five Books of Moses playing out in front of us. Wait a minute, is that a pillar of salt in front of me?

Anonymous Turns

I ski a lot. In common parlance, "I make a lot of turns." I ski more than eight months of the year, virtually all of it on the clock, doing my job. I'm not complaining, mind you, but sometimes those of us who focus so much time and energy on other people's skiing or on the technical aspects of the sport need to recharge our love it. It becomes harder to see the forest for the trees and to appreciate why we're here if we don't remind ourselves. The best way to do this is by simply skiing for the heck of it, without a uniform or a name tag, for fun, for a little release, or for no reason at all other than because we can. It's a reminder just how great skiing can be.

Given the nature of my role at Treble Cone, it's very hard for me to escape for a 'free ski' at TC, to say nothing of skiing elsewhere. Treble Cone is an awesome place to spend my time – literally inspiring awe – but it is also where I work so it's hard for me to disappear for even a couple of runs. I am obviously confident in my skiing skills, but there also is significant pressure for me to perform at the highest level when anyone is watching, and at TC (whether real or imagined) someone is always watching. So, what's a ski pro to do? How can I find and isolate what brings me back to the hill every day? How can I find a moment of un-self-conscious joy, making turns in great snow? Two words: road trip.

I've just returned from Ohau, one of several smaller "ski fields" to the north of Wanaka about an hour-and-a-half away, sitting on the peaks above Lake Ohau. A good friend from home and I spent the night at the very cool Lake Ohau Lodge (see "Gemutlichkeit"), and skied yesterday in the most uncrowded place one can imagine, making fresh tracks in deep snow on every run despite it being several days since the prior storm. The terrain was steep and gnarly, the snow was dry, there was no pressure whatsoever, and my buddy and I were smiling like idiots all day because it was just that good. It was like a skiing transfusion, shaking out the cobwebs, leaving all the pollutants of work, stress, and life behind for a little while to share in the joys so unique to our sport. It's been a long time since I had a great road trip purely for the sake of a road trip, it was absolutely what I needed, and it more than served its purpose. The catch phrase at Ohau, found on innumerable bumper stickers here in New Zealand, is "Ohau I love to ski". How true it is, and thank you Ohau for the reminder.

Frozen Nomenclature

It's a well-worn urban legend that Eskimos have a gazillion words for snow in their language. It is just urban legend. Firstly, 'Eskimo' is not actually an ethnic group or tribal nation. It is a vaguely pejorative term commonly used by Anglo-Europeans who lumped the many tribal and ethnic groups of the Arctic regions and northern reaches of North America into one group. Secondly, even when we refer to the indigenous peoples of the Arctic region using their proper names (Aleut, Inuit, Inupiat and Yupik, among others), their languages differ from place to place. The nature of the nomenclature for snow in Greenland, for example, differs widely from that in Alaska (they are several thousand miles apart, for crying out loud). So, the myth about terms for snow would be the equivalent of saying: "them there Euro-type folk have a zillion words for cheese", said with your best Texas drawl.

As with all subjects linguistic, things here in New Zealand are slightly different. In the case of snow vocabulary, it is not the typical Kiwi juxtaposition of vowels (the number 6 sounding quite a bit racier down here) but the paltry number of descriptive terms for snow that is entertaining. To be precise, Kiwis have exactly two words for snow: "snow" and "powder". I wish I were kidding. Snow that falls straight down in huge flakes, resting in ever-growing piles of light, dry, fantasy-like goodness in the sense of the legendary snows of Hokkaido where people clear their windshields in the morning easier than blowing out birthday candles is referred to, unsurprisingly, as "powder". The wettest, heaviest, most saturated, ski-pole-holes-that-turn-blue, gorilla snot thick, ACL destroying muck is also known as "powder". Everything in between also is called "powder".

Of interest also is that any day on which any person can ski and ride somewhere on Treble Cone in any snow which has fallen within the previous 48 hours is called a "powder day". This leads to my favorite one-liners about 'edge deep powder' and 'sidewall deep powder'. Again, please bear in mind that I'm not kidding. After our recent storm which was a mix of what elsewhere is called 'rain' and 'snow', local enthusiasts were lining up when the lifts opened in order to make fresh tracks in the 'powder'. It is true that at higher elevations and in the Saddle Basin, Treble Cone did get quite a bit of new snow. Calling it powder was a stretch. Nonetheless, our devoted guests were hooping and hollering all day about the freshies as though they were first off the tram at Snowbird, making turns in the best snow the Wasatch Range of Utah has to offer.

It's been a tough season so far in terms of snow cover here at Treble Cone. The mountain is holding up well considering, and there are another two storms in the forecast for the next several days, so we'll make out OK. There is enough snow in the Saddle Basin for all of us to continue enjoying our legendary terrain a great deal. Still, we're all anxious for a big dump, giving us some of those epic days that we all talk about years later. When conditions are OK at TC, I love to ski here. When conditions are epic at TC, it's one of those rare places to ski that eclipses even our imagination (like the day pictured above in 2008 – yours truly skiing in deep, dry, heavenly snow, pure joy). Until that happens this season (fingers crossed), we'll have to enjoy the "powder" as only the Kiwis mean it.

Shutting it Down

At the moment, the stars are clearly visible in the sky overhead despite an evening of on-and-off rain here in town. Looking towards Treble Cone from my house, on the other hand, the view is quite a bit different. There is a massive storm coming, as you can see from the weather chart above, and it is due to hit us by midnight and to be at full strength by the early morning hours. It’s unclear at what elevation the precipitation will fall as snow, but the likely scenario is that as the front passes over TC, the snow line will continue to drop and that by the end of it we’ll get the big dump of the white fluff we’ve been craving. It could be serious, it could be deep, and it most certainly will be welcome.

Among the phenomena here in New Zealand that are totally foreign to visitors from North America is that during very severe storms the ski resorts can actually shut down. It’s due in part to the fact that the resorts are all perched high in alpine terrain above the tree line, and that they are susceptible to both very strong winds which make lifts unsafe and to avalanche danger. This is certainly true of Treble Cone. Add to that the fact that the road leading up to the resort is a bit nutty – the resort “base” is actually more than halfway up the mountain – and one easily can understand why closed days happen.

The real problem with the possibility of the mountain closing is that it exposes some very funny superstitiousness among the staff and our loyal local following. If for some reason the storm is not big enough to close the resort, several people will be blamed for jinxing us – either they were actively predicting a closed day, vocally hoping for a closed day, preparing our business for a closed day, or generally prognosticating as though a closed day was a fait accompli. Don’t misunderstand what is going on here: it is not that the resort staff does not want to work tomorrow, it is simply that we’d gladly sacrifice a day of work if it means getting to ski in some serious powder the day following.

Those of us who do not want to appear superstitious tend to lean heavily on the oddly detailed weather forecasting models here, but I think we nod to superstition anyway. So, my alarm clock is set for the morning, I made plans for the workday tomorrow, and I am not going to burn the midnight oil in anticipation of being able to sleep late. But, my fingers are crossed, in spirit if not reality, and I may take credit for the quality of my snow dance if we do in fact get hammered. In the meantime, I’ll obsess about the forecasts a bit and try to sleep through the eager anticipation of the powder day to come.

Fire in the Sky

Today was a very busy day at Treble Cone. Normally, the last two weeks of July are exceptionally slow - they are probably the least busy weeks of the winter season here on the South Island of New Zealand. Wisely, our resort scheduled several large and notable events during this time, so starting early this morning there was a great buzz about the place. Young alpine racers and their families were arriving by the van-load for a big 'inter-field' race, with the kids resplendent in their high-tech resort ski team uniforms and the number and variety of foreign language accents on the coaches remarkable for this tucked-away corner of the world. In addition, the Summit Saddle Freeride Challenge was a big draw for big mountain skiers and 'wannabe' big mountain skiers from far and wide. The event was a qualifier for the NZ Open North Face Big Mountain Championships, a major stop on the international big mountain skiing circuit, so the fat ski, stickered-helmet, go-big-or-go-home ski subculture was in full flower. It was terrific to have so wide a variety of people out and about, and it lent TC a festival atmosphere.

The best thing about the day, however, was that despite all of the people, all of the energy surrounding the competitions, the biggest buzz of the day and the thing that drew the most attention from the widest variety of people was the sunrise. Each day in the first half of the season I get to see the sunrise while at Treble Cone. It's nearly always beautiful, it's frequently shockingly beautiful, and occasionally it'll stop even the most jaded mountain dweller in their tracks, mouth agape and cameras in action. This was such a morning. Race coaches from all over the world, new school freeriders, spoiled bratty kids on holiday, hardscrabble local folk, itinerant ski and snowboard pros, barristas, patrollers and lifites all seemed to take a moment and just watch Mother Nature's pyrotechnic introduction to the day. It's hard to convey what it's like to work in this environment each and every day for a season. Even the best photos can't quite give the feeling of the time and place, but they may give you some inkling of just how gorgeous it can be. So I hope you enjoy these photos and, if you don't mind, I hope they help you daydream a bit about life in the mountains.

Well Insulated

"Hold on a minute," I said to a friend from home on the phone recently, "I'm going to move into a room with heat." I then walked from my bedroom and into the great room of the house I'm renting with friends here in Wanaka, New Zealand for the Southern Winter, closing the door to the great room behind me. I then giggled a bit, having to explain that yes, there is only one room in our relatively new house that's heated and that it's a rarity that we're able to rent a new house with double-glazed windows, a heat retaining tile roof, insulation, and a "heat pump" in the great room – a heat pump being a wall-mounted electricity-powered forced-air heater.

In my first season here in Wanaka, back in 2007, I shared a house that was not insulated, was built of cinder block, had single pane windows that were less air tight than my backpacking tent, had a fireplace with no flew that was very effective at sucking all the heat out of the house and sending it up the chimney, and that was the coldest building in which I've ever spent time. It would have been a good place to train for life inside a remote mountain artillery battery in wartime. My running joke was that I'd brought thermal long underwear for skiing but only wore it when I went to sleep at night. It was a classic Kiwi "batch" – a bungalow-like summer vacation home typical of Wanaka before the boom in winter sports resorts here began a few decades ago. The best thing I can say about that old house was that it would have been terrific near a beach in a tropical climate.

In defense of the Kiwis, Wanaka was for most of its history a summer resort town, so there was no need to build homes that could comfortably house people in the cold winter of the Southern Alps. In addition, New Zealand is after all a remote island very far south, far from just about everything and with the costs of construction goods that one would expect from its location. And the Kiwis are justly proud of their hard-scrabble, independent-minded, self-sufficiency - it's part of what I enjoy about their company and their nation. Still, it doesn't quite fully explain why it is that despite exorbitantly expensive electricity and a tough climate, Kiwis insist on building inefficient homes that are uncomfortable to inhabit. For crying out loud, I had dinner at a friend's quite modern home last night and pulled some olive oil out of her pantry that was frozen! I mean seriously, her kitchen was so cold that her olive oil froze on the shelf, and that was in a nice house. I wish I were making this up.

So what's an itinerant ski pro to do? How do we keep warm on those cold winter nights with the wind howling as the storms come in off the cold ocean? How can we find a respite from the long days outdoors? Well, truthfully, there are two options. The first is to spend lots of time in the pubs, which generally have roaring fireplaces and all kinds of drinks for sale that can act as vasodilators, warming our hearts and our bodies, steeling our nerves for a night in the igloo. The second is what is referred to here as an 'electric blanket'. An electric blanket here in NZ is not actually a blanket, rather it's a bed pad that goes underneath one's sheets and has an electric coil running through it. Mine has three settings on it – I refer to them as lukewarm, cozy, and pan roast. I typically turn it on the medium setting a few minutes before climbing into bed for the night. Occasionally, I fall asleep fast enough that I don't turn it off until I wake up in the middle of the night severely dehydrated, sweaty, and short only some garlic and rosemary to complete the recipe. Pan seared flannel wrapped roasted Russ. Throw in a goggle tan and an oddly pale mid-section, and I'd scare any creature who happened upon me as I splash cold water on my face at 3:00AM. It's not pretty. But, alas, I do love my electric blanket.

Perhaps next year I'll go into the import / export business and bring into New Zealand a container ship filled with fiberglass insulation, Tyvek, and weather stripping. Then again, maybe I'll just chalk all this up to one of the many curiosities of my time on this side of the globe that I enjoy so much. Now please excuse me while I change into my thermal sleeping attire and do a little snow dance before hitting the sack. There is a storm coming but we need snow pretty badly, and I'm not averse to a little superstitious snow dancing, particularly if it warms up my extremities.

Photographic Evidence

It's been exceptionally busy here in Wanaka and at Treble Cone, training new staff, spiffing up the place and then working out the kinks during our first two weeks of business. With the two busiest weeks of the season beginning this coming weekend, the whole resort will be rockin' and we're all eager and ready for it. When it's all over and we catch our breath, I'll provide a little more context. For now, here's some photographic evidence for those of you who still don't believe how sweet it is down here in the Southern Alps.

Jet Lag

To-do list: (1) update business levels and instructor sign-out spread sheets, (2) complete master staff contact list for current season, (3) complete notes on new training clinic idea, (4) label photos from spring travels, (4) organize photos for calendar project, (5) create new iTunes playlist for gym, (6) review iTunes library to make sure all composers' names are inserted consistently, (7) write new piece for blog about what to do while lying in bed wide awake from 4:00AM.

As I write, I've been awake for five and a half hours and it is now 9:30AM here in Wanaka. The truth is that I jinxed myself yesterday after completing my long journey to New Zealand. I was catching up with some good friends in a café yesterday afternoon and, despite knowing better, I caved in and had a big bowl of coffee. I even made a joke to the waitress about needing a cup big enough to swan dive into it, and man-o-man did she deliver. Moron! The caffeine wore off by early evening, I was catatonic by 7:30PM, fought like a champ, and then gave up and was snoring like a chain saw by 9:00. I am now paying the price. It'd be one thing if it were summer here and the days were long and sunny, but it's still pitch black outside, to say nothing of the damp weather. And my house is cold. And I have no internet or cable TV yet to make the time pass. So, despite having gotten plenty of sleep during my 26 hours of flying, it's just me, my now completed ministerial work items, my unlabeled photos, and my first post from the 2010 New Zealand season.

On my flight from Auckland to Christchurch, I sat next to a young Canadian woman arriving for her first Southern Winter. She was giddy, nervous, excited and 'totally stoked', and our conversation really brought home the extraordinary experience of doing what we do. We talked about the essentials of adjusting to life in New Zealand: Kiwis' weird names for standard coffee drinks, their strange issues relating to vowel pronunciation, and what they mean when they answer a question "yih, yih, yih, nah, nah". All the while, I watched the look on her face as she snuck glances across the aisle to the sun rising over the snowy peaks of the Southern Alps as the reality of just how beautiful it is here literally and figuratively dawned on her. Observing that sort of energy from someone experiencing the start of her first endless winter was the perfect way to get me in mode for my arrival. This is my fourth season in Wanaka and my fifth Southern Winter overall. What this means is that over the next few days I'll begin my 15^th winter of the past decade. The truth confirmed for me by my flying companion is that I remain nonetheless very excited to be back. Now I just need a little daylight and a full day staying awake without any caffeine, and I'll be ready to enjoy my season to the fullest.

Speaking of being excited, the amount of snow that has fallen on the Southern Alps has been extraordinary so far, and Treble Cone doesn't even open until the end of the month. Flying over the mountains in Canterbury yesterday en route to Wanaka, the snow line was down to nearly the shores of Lake Pukaki, Lake Tikapo and Lake Ohau, and the contrast of the white mountains and iridescent aquamarine lakes in the light of the sunrise was just another in a long string of mental images I won't soon forget. The photos above and below are of Treble Cone as seen from my house this morning, with the groomed runs and base lodge visible in the midst of an astonishing amount of pre-season snow. The reports from our operations team have become ever more giddy, and rightly so. There's a lot to do in the next couple of weeks to get ready and, as long as it keeps snowing, generating enthusiasm from the resort staff, from our guests and from ourselves will be the easiest thing we do all season.

Green Means Go

Though I live and work in Vermont in the Northern Winter and in Wanaka, New Zealand in the Southern Winter, my home is in a very small town in the remote Northwest corner of Connecticut.

Often during the winter in VT, people will ask where I'm from and, upon hearing that I'm from Connecticut, they will conjure images of the wealthy, crowded suburbs of New York City that line the Connecticut shoreline abutting the Long Island Sound. People are amazed when I explain that there are mountains in Connecticut, that there is no highway where I live, no chain stores, strip malls or even traffic lights. While a large number of wealthy New Yorkers do have second homes in the area, there are enough working farms to keep all of us honest, and we're far enough away and hard enough to get to that our town remains relatively unspoiled. What amazes people the most is when I tell them that it's greener here than even Vermont, that when the leaves are finally full in Spring it's so green here it almost hurts the eyes.

"The Berkshires?", you may ask, "Really?" It is precisely this 'off-the-radar' aspect of being here that brings me such peace of mind. It provides a distinct lack of pretension and an ease to our existence, along with the confidence that we can continue doing what we do, at our pace, with our people, without pressure.

Right now, in early June, the ancient oaks that so dominate our woodlands are finally in their deepest green sartorial splendor. On long rides through the winding country roads that ring the river valleys and ribbon the hillsides, my bike fitness is now at the point where I can enjoy the place without the aches and pains of early season. One more month and I'll really be able to pour it on ... except I don't have another month. At precisely the moment when things are at their most spectacular here, once again I will be departing for another winter on the other side of the planet. I've said it before and I'll say it now: it's not that I don't like summer, it's that I willingly sacrifice it to explore my passion for and pursue my career in alpine skiing.

Panglossian rants aside, at least the parting mental images I have of my home here will be of the countryside at it's peak of green as I love it best. For me, once again, green means go. I'll continue to report in from winter in the Southern Alps of New Zealand, and I'm sure it'll be yet another terrific season there. I will occasionally, however, day dream of greener, warmer pastures, and think of home.

Feeding Frenzy

Disclaimer: this post has nothing whatsoever to do with my usual subjects of skiing, ski teaching, life in the mountains, or sociological considerations for outdoor play time for children. It does, however, have to do with time spent outdoors observing nature unaffected by man and how fundamentally cool it can be. I spent some time on a boat on the salt water Kiawah River in South Carolina this morning. It's not exactly the middle of an enormous national park, but there is a remarkable abundance of wildlife and unspoiled natural landscape here, including a great deal of wetlands and waterways. The short excursion this morning was intended to observe a variety of native Atlantic Bottlenose Dolphins known locally as River Dolphins, and the animals did not disappoint. The video below is of a practice unique to the local dolphin population referred to as "strand feeding", where multiple dolphins corral a school of fish by swimming around them on multiple sides, stranding them on the banks of the river and then chowing down like it's a buffet line at one of the local golf resorts. It's really pretty amazing to see, and I'm pretty lucky to have gotten it on film. Enjoy.

The Cost of a Volcano

"I'm so jealous." "I think it's wonderful that you can do what you love for a living." "I think it's wonderful that you love what you do for a living." "You have the best life." "I wish I could figure out a way to make my passion my career." "You really seem to have it all figured out." And then, "How do you make it all work?"

It may sound ridiculous, but when people I meet hear what I do for a living, they often impose on me their fantasy for a no-more-gazing-out-the-office-window, active, outdoor, comfortable clothing-attired lifestyle. In their imagination, my life is wholly populated by smiling children and their enlightened parents, large well-trained dogs, an easy pace, local produce and, apparently, a pile of Krugerrands sitting at home to count after a long day in the mountains. Depending on who the people spouting the fantasy may be, there may be a Prius in the driveway, a low-impact green modern home with an organic herb garden, and a trout stream running through the back 40 for leisurely days of fly fishing in the warmer months. I wish I were joking about this. Though I understand and appreciate this line of thinking, it's clear that none of these people have ever depended on the income from teaching skiing for a living and none of them have ever lived full-time in a hard-working Vermont town that pre-existed the ski industry. I love what I do and where I do it, but my now well-rehearsed cautionary response is to 'be careful what you wish for, you might just get it'.

As I have for the last few years, following the end of the ski season here in Vermont I've just spent some time in London visiting my sister and her family and catching up with some friends who live in the UK. It's a terrific way to decompress from the season. This time, my week-long trip turned into 11 days with the stoppage of air traffic due to the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland. Thankfully, I have no particular responsibility to anyone other than myself at this time of year, so it was not a problem for me to extend my stay a bit. It's not that the extra few days was stress-free, but it's not as though I had a pile of meetings and paperwork to come home to after the trip. The stories of people stranded and spending thousands on cabs from one end of Europe to the other, waiting in long lines in hopes of getting a train seat, and pulling their hair out with the logistical challenges of running international business without the ability to fly were certainly interesting and entertaining. I, however, got a kick out of merely shrugging my shoulders when asked whether it was a bad thing for me to be stuck. I mean seriously, there really was no hurry, and some of the people I encountered were a bit putt off by someone who clearly had no reason to be stressed. I enjoyed it, frankly. I am a man of leisure in between seasons and, pile of Krugerrands or not, that's just fine by me.

It's not as though my extended stay was without costs to me. I do tend to make my way through my sister's cupboards and refrigerator with precision, speed and strength and London is an expensive place to spend time, especially when compared to Ludlow, Vermont. But these things and the agita that results are hard to quantify. So, the simplest version of my balance sheet for the trip looks like this: on the asset side was four more days of hanging out with friends and chasing and being chased by my niece and nephew and their posse of neighbors on scooters like an episode of The Little Rascals Goes to London. On the debit side was the cost of parking my car at JFK. $260.10. The eruption of Eyjafjallajokull cost me $260.10. It was a small price to pay and I didn't even have to learn to pronounce the name of the damn volcano.

The photos above and below are from a number that I took of the Thames Barrier, the Albert Memorial in London's Kensington Gardens, and some views in The Cotswolds respectively.

Onomatopoeia

Tick tock; drip drop; gurgle gurgle; whoosh; flip flop; ahhhhhh. Yes, the sounds of a season winding down are all too familiar, ending with the sounds of my favorite shoes and a big sigh. It's been a winter of big highs and some pretty blue lows but considering the state of the economy, the environment and the world in which we live, it was a good season. Once again, the great joy I find in teaching skiing helps me navigate through stormier and less rewarding waters, and the enthusiasm and energy of the guests with whom I am lucky enough to spend my time continues to be infectious even now.

The last several days were oddly and otherworldly hot and sunny here in Vermont. I arrived at the locker room for work on Saturday morning at the usual time wearing flip flops, shorts and short sleeves. I went through my normal morning routine of signing in, getting my skis ready for the day, and pulling my boots off of the drying rack. I then sat in my usual spot with my boots on the floor next to my feet. I looked at my feet in flip flops, looked at my boots, looked at my feet, looked again at the boots, picked up the boots, replaced them on their spot on the wall, and then went straight to the supervisors' room to say that I had absolutely no intention of changing my footwear that day. Off I went into the summery blue yonder, successfully enjoying the rest of it without so much as a shiver. The following day was the last official one for the Okemo Ski + Ride School – we'll do the occasional lesson this week before the resort closes its doors for the season on Sunday, but for all intents and purposes we're done. There is still snow on the trails, there are still a few lingering people sliding out there (very few), but the looks on the faces of the employees tell the whole story. This week and through the weekend, all of our guests are still welcome and will receive the same consideration and standard of service for which we are justly famous, but we'll all be ready for a little off-season come Sunday.

The relevant sounds for me in the coming weeks, after a little travel to catch up with friends and family, will be those of a newly cleaned drivetrain and spiffy new tires on my road bike, and the groans coming from my not-quite-saddle-ready body. I'm looking forward to it, groans and all.