The Smell of Melting Plastic

October snow along the Frying Pan River in Basalt, Colorado

I’m in search of something, some place in particular. My search is partly experiential but mostly existential. The search forms an integral part of my skiing life, and it’s triggered by olfactory memory. Pretty much every ski town in which I’ve spent time as a skier, athlete, coach, instructor, and trainer has a place that fits the bill, and at this time of year it’s at the forefront of my thinking.

I can see it clearly. Pull into a parking lot alongside vehicles that include trucks in use by tradespeople, expensive suburban SUV’s, beat up old Honda sedans, and a greater than average number of Subarus. Open the equipment manufacturer sticker-decorated front door and the old fashioned tinkling of a bell on the threshold barely can be heard over the din of power tools and the distant hum of exhaust fans mostly doing their job. And then the smells hit me: p-tex and wax being melted, polyurethane being ground, and something vaguely wooly in the humid autumn air. It’s a ski shop, of course, and I can feel the warmth as I write.

At the boot tech benches, a fitter is working with a race coach discussing an athlete’s tibia length and cuff height - the boot fitter is a faster ski racer than the coach and they both know and are totally comfortable with that. A guest is sitting on a bench with their jeans rolled up to their knees in hope of enjoying their ski days more and longer in comfort, happy to be taking their time to do so while looking at glossy powder photos and soaking in the atmosphere. Downstairs, binding plates are being drilled into place using age old jigs that hang on the wall when not in use and that form part of the decor. Somehow shoe-horned into the back-shop are shiny, modern, computerized, water-cooled ski tuning machines that amazingly have not displaced the numerous devices that seem non-technical and ancient but still current and effective in a way that shows the arc of time for all of us who ski. Magazine back issues and the occasional leather ski boot sit on any available surface, and there is definitely an empty pizza box somewhere. A jar of Dermatone tins sits on the counter. The FedEx driver drops off a few boxes with a simple wave and a ‘see ya’ to nobody in particular. Long after my walking in and poking around, the large old dog finally acknowledges my presence and then goes back to sleep in the corner, making me feel validated as a ski pro to have gotten her approval. It’s OK, the big dog thinks as she settles in at her slow winter speed, he’s one of us.

On the road through my career in the Northeastern USA, I know the manifestation of this shop in pretty much every mountain town I’ve visited. And if I don’t, I certainly can find it quickly in a pinch and there is tremendous comfort in that. One of the vexing issues of having relocated to a fancy-schmancy Rocky Mountain resort is that I haven’t really found a place where I can just walk in to say hello and pick the brain of an expert with an encyclopedic memory of the bones in my particular feet while discussing the evolution of sidewall construction and whether the wasp nests were high or low in the woods this year. It’s just a matter of time until I do – in Aspen, they may just be hidden behind the razzle dazzle, but they’re here.

At this time of year more than any other, after spinning my wheels all summer and dealing with big picture industry issues and concerns with my colleagues, it’s a really wonderful thing to get operational with ‘getting my new setup dialed’ and geeking it up with current equipment offerings. Did you see the boots being tested in Hintertux? How much slow rise does the new powder ski have? Doesn’t this remind you of that funny boutique Swiss ski from the ‘80’s? Did you see that CB Sports is back in business?! My thoughts turn to my friends and family at The Boot Pro in Ludlow, Vermont, whose hashtag #biggestlittleskishop says it all - I miss them. Funny though it sounds, the olfactory memories of the shop and all the shops like it get me daydreaming, bringing to mind the sensations of skiing, the images of my equally devoted friends grinning, and they warm my heart and reinvigorate my true love of skiing and ski people.

There’s snow on the hills. I am very ready for winter. And I’m very curious to see if my off-season fitness will have changed my alignment for my super sweet just-arrived new Nordicas. I’ll just have to find the shop that I can imagine in order to find out!

Ice Cream Sundaes, Mini-Golf, and Ski Lessons

My niece and nephew have grown since this gem, but my duty as their uncle remains the same.

Step 1: Imagine an ice cream sundae. Actually, just in case you’re a jaded grown-up, imagine you’re a kid imagining an ice cream sundae on a hot summer day. No kid worth their weight in, umm, kid matter would need an explanation of the difference between a dish of ice cream and an ice cream sundae. If you need this spelled out for you, find the nearest kid under the age of 6 and interview them – I am confident they’ll be clear and exacting in their description, especially on a hot summer day.

Step 2: Imagine that you’ve gotten some little kid you know excited for an ice cream sundae on a hot summer day. Then, rather than taking them to the Palace of Gigantic Technicolor Fantasmagoric Ice Cream Awesomeness they’ve imagined, you take them to a temple of gastronomy for a little dish of hyper-clever, immaculately presented, technically masterful, Michelin-starred, deconstructed ice-cream concept molecular gastronomy. Words fail me in attempting to articulate their likely reaction, but I can see their confused and disappointed tear-filled faces in my minds’ eye. It breaks my heart and makes me want to seek them out, buy them an ice cream, and trade bad uncle jokes while strolling along the nearest boardwalk in order to rescue their childhood.

I feel the same way about mini-golf. And skiing. For adults as well as kids.

Now that you’ve dusted off your child-like imagination, try this: imagine yet another hot summer evening where, after a suitably summery smorgasbord of splendifolous ice cream sundaes, you and your friends of all ages decide to walk on over to the mini-golf course for some down-home healthy fun. You pay for the rounds from the high-schooler in the hut, find the right sized beat up old putter with the least sticky grip, identify the strangest fluoro pink golf ball with orange flames on it just because, and proceed to the famous first hole with the windmill. Please work with me here, I have a point to make about teaching snow sports.

Finally, as you and your friends, young and old, are giggling on your way to the famous first hole with the windmill, a very good-looking stranger with a bright toothy grin and wearing impressive golf clothing stops you and directs you to the practice hole that has no windmill, and then tells you that first you need to learn proper mechanics in order to have more success on the mini-golf course. Rest assured, he or she tells you, they are an outstanding golfer and a certified pro, and they are uniquely capable of teaching you the latest, greatest techniques for guaranteeing your success on that particular mini-golf course. You may have to buy an expensive new putter but that comes later. Suddenly, the windmill seems very far away on the horizon.

The disappointment of being on the practice hole at a mini-golf course would be the same as with the kid in the fancy schmancy restaurant. We imagine total awesomeness and have whiplash as we’re yanked into something that is somehow rational, well-conceived and ultimately effective but is totally decoupled from why we’re there in the first place.

Sliding around on snow is not merely fun. It’s healthy for body mind and spirit in ways big and small, and it’s super duper fun. It’s so much fun that adults and kids spend lots of money, travel very far, wear other people’s clothes, and occasionally sacrifice otherwise promising careers to do it all the time. Somehow, however, our snow sports schools and instructor organizations are still inexplicably fighting the reflex to codify, regulate, and otherwise sap the fun out of beginner experiences in the name of technical proficiency. When I see these ‘perfectly executed beginner progressions’, it fills me with the same reflex of wanting to save the guests – in winter that may still include bad uncle jokes but the ice cream may be replaced with hot chocolate and lots of sliding around on terrain that doesn’t scare the snot out of them. The Italian and Swiss ski schools have some really inventive ‘snow gardens’ for kids and, notably, Smugglers Notch Resort in Vermont has done an excellent job making their kids’ beginner area oodles of fun. Still, capturing the imagination of adults and kids and making sure that their learning experiences align with their expectations of awesomeness is a mission for all of us. Truthfully, this also is equally true for experts and beginners alike.

Ultimately, unlike mini-golf, the greatest advantage we have in our sports is that the mere act of sliding on snow is fun in and of itself – this is true whether the backdrop is Maroon Bells in Aspen, the Green Mountains of Vermont, frozen Lake Superior, wherever, no windmill needed. The real risk is that the instructor with the big grin, the fancy gear, and big words will just screw that up for the guests. I have yet to see a beginner area with a windmill or an ice cream stand serving ginormous sundaes, but maybe that’s something to consider.

In the interim, when the heat wave in California is done cooking people, the forest fires in the Rockies are done burning everything up, and it stops raining in New England, I’ll look forward to doing my duty as an uncle and buying my niece and nephew an  ice cream sundae and enjoying it together in the sunshine. After all, it’s my job. Hey kiddo, chocolate sauce or caramel? Ooh, let’s have both!

Consulting the Doozeometer

Mixed emotions at the end of the 2015-16 season with the Sugarbush Ski & Ride School.

Many years ago, for purposes of modern science, together with some of my dearest guests and favorite ski companions, I created the Doozeometer Scale. The Doozeometer measures the extent to which something is a "doozy" and it proves very useful when in need of perspective.

I have very vivid memories of a particular afternoon in the spring of 2016 at Sugarbush, sitting over a beer with trusted members of my management team at the end of the season, feeling like we’d just competed in one of those cross country ski races where all of the athletes collapse and are sprawled out on the ground in a heap after crossing the finish line. The winter of 2015-16 was the worst season for snow that any of us could remember in a way that was quite stunning - it was difficult in every respect, but the staff at Sugarbush inspired us every day and I remain proud of the work we all did and think back fondly on that time we had together. Still, as challenging as the 15-16 season was, the particular details that made it so exceptionally difficult did fall into the class of issues one could reasonably have expected in a business dependent upon snowfall. I'd give that season a 9 out of 10 on the Doozeometer. This season just completed, 2020-21, was challenging in ways that were very different.

There are far too many pundits, prognosticators, philosophers, and pedagogues filling the airwaves in this day and age, and I have no interest in wasting anyone’s time drawing big picture conclusions about ‘what we learned in the pandemic ski season’. I’m too psychologically tired for that and finding the proper perspective will take time; lots of time. Still, what’s been cracking me up lately as I look back and consider is that there seem to have been equal numbers of incidents, aspects, and anecdotes that leave me shaking my head, raising an eyebrow and saying “ooph”, and those that have me closing my eyes for a moment, nodding slowly and say “ahhh”. Ooph and Ahhh are like the yin and yang of expression by exhalation.

Speaking of psychological effort, I was aware throughout this past season and still am now that the moments of anxiety, discomfort, disgust, loss of faith in humanity – the “ooph” moments – felt as though they overwhelmed the good, faith-inducing ones – the ahhhs. Not letting the fewer, negative experiences tip the balance of how we were all feeling about the season took effort, certainly, but it also required that we all be far more deliberate in taking the time to focus on what was good, caring, welcome, beautiful and genuinely fun. There may have been moments where looking at the view, ‘stopping to smell the roses’ as it were, felt contrived or forced, but this year I am confident that my friends, colleagues, and guests appreciated all that our time together in the mountains provided. This year more than ever, skiing was a truly joyful way to spend our time. Ahhhhhh.

Somehow, by hook or by crook, I generally had a busy season and by some miracle managed to remain healthy throughout. In November and occasionally throughout the season, I held my breath a bit over whether anyone could or should come skiing at all – ooph. Then there were plenty of moments where I was fortunate to spend my time with wonderful people whose concern for all of our collective safety and well-being allowed me to literally and figuratively breathe easily - ahhh. And when we set off down the mountain, every time we set off, the skiing felt normal in a way that was meaningfully reassuring and for which I remain truly and immensely grateful. For that reason, for the balance of ooph and ahhh, I rate the 20-21 season a 9 out of 10 on the Doozeometer. A true 10 would be tough to imagine and I hope I never see one.

What’s my plan for the shoulder season? Simple. Breathe in, breathe out. Put my feet up. Clear my mind on my beloved bicycle. Go for a hike. Reconnect safely with friends and family without fear. Day-dream a bit about the post-pandemic world. That sure was a doozy. Ooph, we made it. Ahhh, we made it. Thank Goodness. Hopefully, we won't need to bust out the Doozeometer for the next season.

The Value of a Good Roast Chicken

The start of another stunning day at Aspen Highlands

It’s getting cold outside; I’m quite worn from a very busy few weeks and a long winter; and I really would like a warm, crispy roast chicken for dinner. With some roasted vegetables. And a glass of delicious and decidedly un-snobby red wine; the kind of French red that goes well with a roast chicken without offending anyone. Nothing fancy schmancy, no razzmatazz, just a good roast chicken dinner. I am a bit of a Francophile, it’s food for l’esprit and the body, and my mouth waters just thinking of it.

If I were to have a quiet conversation with any ‘of-the-moment’ celebrity chefs who happen to be French and classically trained, I’d ask them what dish they yearn for, what food they reach for when they really just need a decent meal to warm the spirit. My firmly held belief is that the best French chefs, any of them worth their weight in sel de mer, would want to curl up in the corner of an old village bistro or their grandmother’s kitchen and have a roast chicken. No noise; no fanfare; no foams or towers; definitely no molecular gastronomy; just a roast chicken. Of course, the meal I have in my mind’s eye is a mere roast chicken in the same way that the Dalai Lama is a “mere monk”, as he likes to joke. There is nothing easy about preparing a great roast chicken, and there are far too many mediocre or high-falutin’ ones in the world. Difficult doesn’t mean complex, simple doesn’t mean easy, and the only result that counts is whether the roast can ease the body and transport the mind to a happier place. And yes, in this way I am also talking about the craft of teaching skiing and snowboarding, and of doing it well. Bear with me, I’m getting a bit misty.

One of the odd dynamics of the corps of people who teach skiing and snowboarding for a living is that there are some among them, not an inconsequential number, who believe that they have achieved such a lofty status that they no longer have to teach beginners. It is true that those of us who have been teaching for a while and ski and ride at a certain level do tend to work with more proficient guests who have skiing and riding as an established part of their lives, but that doesn’t mean we don’t teach beginners. Or at least it shouldn’t; and I have a big chip on my shoulder about those pros who think it should.

The simple fact is that teaching beginners never fails to be rewarding. Every successful beginner lesson creates skiers and riders, and if we teach because we really do love our sports in a deep and meaningful way then this is the greatest result of what we do as instructors. Equally important to us as pros, beginner lessons are the very best window on the quality and content of our own teaching, and they are the ultimate test of our beliefs and understanding of how people move and learn. Make it happen for people on their first ever day skiing and riding, and you’ve shown your real mettle as a teacher.

To be clear, there are many instructors out there doing a fine job of working with their high-level guests who don’t agree with me about beginners, but I happily call them out on it and genuinely enjoy challenging them to make it happen for folks at the very beginning of their snow sports journey. Often those instructors hide behind being cool when I do this. Sometimes, they make excuses. Often they are too vanity-stricken and preoccupied with trying to become famous on social media as impressive skiers or riders for ten seconds at a time to understand the pertinent point in the first place. Occasionally they agree with me and then become nostalgic for the simple joy of teaching beginners, and that’s when I know that I am speaking with a truly great and dedicated pro, and one of my people. Yes, the pros who are my people are like the chefs who long for a great roast chicken. The idea of aligning the two may seem far-fetched, but I promise that the look on the faces of my instructor friends is the same as the great chefs, and so is their memory of the satisfaction that warms our hearts as a result.

I haven’t lived here in Aspen Snowmass long enough yet to have a local bistro where I can become a regular, slinking in late after a long day and in need of a good roast chicken and a glass of wine (oh how I do miss my friends at Chez Henri in Warren, VT). I need a bistro in my life, so that’ll have to happen when we return to normal. Thankfully, I was lucky enough this winter to work with a few wonderful people who had never skied before, and to share our sport with them in a way that opened the door to their own love of it and, hopefully, to a lifetime of skiing. I’m quite confident that those beginner lessons, those shared experiences, will turn out to have been the most joyous teaching moments for me this winter. Those lessons (and so many others) continue to serve as a vital reminder of why I love teaching skiing.

I enjoy nouvel cuisine as much as anyone; I certainly spend a great deal of time teaching people on Aspen Highlands’ legendary expert terrain; I do very much love coaching race athletes and training instructors; but it’s still a roast chicken in a warm bistro that I long for at the end of a long day and it’s the beginner lessons that keep me grounded and satisfied as a pro. That, and a real and a figurative glass of red wine and a warm fire, for my guests and for myself, keeps it all in perspective. And don’t even get me started on the value of a great soup à l’onion gratinée – pardon me, it must be time for dinner.