Progress

"You need to get more on edge to go faster."

"I don't want to go that fast."

Cut to a few years later and I'm pushing my 148 cm Salomon Screamer's to the point of chattering. Then my 162 cm K2 Apaches. Now my 170 cm Volkl Kikus. Progressing in skiing tends to mean getting to the point you never thought you'd be at, or want to be at.

I remember the first time I skied powder on those same Screamers. They weren't a ski designed for powder in the least, with something like 105-70-95 dimensions these things didn't understand the concept of float and neither did I. Growing up in the Bay Area, commuting to Tahoe, and skiing compacted Sierra Cement doesn't really make for a powder hound and I was terrified. I was sitting too far back trying to keep my narrow tips from digging in and tensing up against the inevitable fall. Why I was afraid of falling on an intermediate slope in powder I cannot understand, but the fear was there.

Even though I learned to like powder days on those skis, and then my Apaches, I still didn't understand the hype and never considered myself a powder hound. I wasn't one to try to ski off-piste when there was a nice groomer underfoot. My equipment made me crave the sensation of carving, not floating, so I didn't understand the insane excitement about big dump days. To me it meant that, once they groomed, the ice would be covered and I could bomb those groomers without losing an edge.

Then I met the Kikus. 107 mm underfoot, camberless with slight rocker tip and tail, and a nice long sharp edge for carving, these skis truly define all-mountain/big-mountain skiing. My first day out on them I was nervous; was I going to be able to ski these behemoths? Then I hopped off the lift and ahhhhh. More than any other piece of ski equipment I'd ever owned they things were a piece of me. Super responsive, nice and carvy, they seemed perfect. But I'd been able to ski groomers on my old skis, what about powder? I waited and waited for the chance to test them and finally, back on my home turf I got the chance.

Over spring break I headed home to Montana and lucked into an awesome powder day at Big Sky my first day back. I headed up to the Lone Peak Triple and headed down the bowl. I'm sure I looked super awkward, trying to figure out how to ski the fluff. It's funny, as an advanced to expert skier, trying to figure out to ski powder; but since I'd been skiing such narrow skis I'd had to compensate by sitting back and steering from the back seat. Now I could lean in and really relish it. It was starting to click towards the end of that trip; I hit up the Challenger lift for the first time and had a spectacular run. It was heavenly.

At this point I thought I knew. Yes, I liked powder before, but now I truly got it. All the hype, it made sense; sure, a groomer day can be balls to the wall fun, but powder days are true freedom. Freedom from though, freedom from gravity, freedom from everything but the craving for the next face shot or rooster tail.

I didn't know.

Last weekend Snowbird got dumped on, so we bailed out of studying for our two Monday exams and headed to the hill. The canyon was closed so we ended up waiting in line with all the other ski-eager Utahns and visitors for about an hour, but soon enough we were up there. We rushed to get our gear on, relishing the bluebird day, perfect temps, and the freshies we could see on every slope. Our first run took us under the Little Cloud lift and I was surprised to find it icy underneath; it had already been scraped down. After the cat track though was a different story: moguls that had been covered in the fluffy white stuff and just broke away underfoot. Lighter than air, blowing up above my waist, I found heaven. And my skis were finally not a limiting factor. They swung around exactly as I wanted them too and floated through the cold smoke so smoothly, I was truly floating. And flying, taking the powder faster than ever, knowing I could take whatever I came across. It was a perfect day. The headslam into a cat track couldn't stop me, and the only thing that got me off the slopes was the knowledge that my legs would likely give out and lead to some serious injury if I kept going.

I guess that's progression for you. Go back 9 seasons and ask me what my ski goals were and I know I've far surpassed them. That scared little girl, crying down the Powder River run (which had been marked blue but has since been demoted), never would have wanted to try to break 60 mph on skis, couldn't have imagined considering skiing Corbet's Couloir in a few weeks on a trip to Jackson Hole, and never would have thought she'd be one keeping up with the guys. Passion leads to progress, and progress is the best visualization of someone's passion. I'd like to think mine shows in spades.