What do I know?
I know the smell of wax hanging in the kitchen air for hours. I know the bitter sting of alder branches on my face during those first bare runs of the season. I know how my right glove is in constant disrepair from carrying my skis and how the left one is in even worse condition from my default trick, the mute.
I know the sensation of floating a switch 3 over a 40-foot table, feeling invincible, untouchable, godly. I know the pain of the ensuing headache after rotating 90 degrees too far. I know how to adjust trekkers, apply skins and sweat heavily. I
don’t know how to bang gates like Bode, D-spin like Jon Olsson, straightline like Nobis or slide rails like Crichton.
I do know how to snowplow like your little sister, ride a T-bar switch and do a mean-ass
crotch-grab spread eagle. I know how to be involuntarily
abstinent and voluntarily destitute in order to ski
everyday, all winter long. I know the alienation and attitude from locals upon moving to a new ski town. I also know how to drop those same locals in the race for freshies, day after day, month after month, year after year.
I know where to get the cheapest beer, the best wings and free pool. I know how to recognize tourists and tell them to go elsewhere. I know the frustration of
loading chairs in 40 cm of blower pow while every smartass I load makes a dumbass comment. I know the ecstasy of ripping Boomerang in 30cm while a packed audience screams in defeat from the chairlift above. I know the pride of bagging a first descent off the lizard rockband in Fernie, a dumb smile plastered on my face, happy to be alive. I also know how it took two pitchers of beer in the Grizzly bar to stop my knees from shaking afterwards
(Thank you Yasha and Matt).
I know the incredible friendships developed throughout my years in a mountain town. I know the disappointment of seeing good friends leave after the season, the curse of the transient town. I know the stoke from a sick season degenerating into longing for a day, just one day, without shinbang. I know the feeble attempt at filling the skiing void with mountain biking, hiking and drinking, longing for a day, just one day, of shinbang. I know the sadness of leaving my beloved little ski town for the concrete metropolis, intent on going to school. I know the relief of missing the worst winter in recent memory honing my photography while away at school. I know the joy of returning to see that it still pukes snow
ALL THE F#@KIN TIME in Fernie. But most of all, more than any of these things, I know the appreciation I feel each and every day for having the gift of skiing in my life.
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