In Praise of Corduroy
because life doesn't always have to be so hard
I spent the first hour of the day on Thursday April 6, 2023 skiing corduroy. From top to bottom the Arizona Snowbowl was neatly groomed with hard and crusty lanes of snow running down the fall line. There is still so much snow on the mountain, that they can resurrect some pretty good ski conditions using a very specific grooming tactic. Overnight, they dredge up fresh snow from underneath the exposed crust of the outside layer and they pound it into little pebbles that they lay over the trail like sand. Skiers everywhere refer to these ski conditions as corduroy because the grooming machine leaves a pattern of snow that appears to have grooves in it. Looking up or down the slope, the tightly spaced ridges and grooves looks like a pair of corduroy pants.
Like many born in the fifties, I went through a corduroy phase in the seventies. I believe that the popularity of these pants took hold either right begore or just after the bell bottomed jeans craze. It is hard to remember because we were all smoking so much bad weed back then, my recollection of this time period is a little hazy. But at one point, I even had a corduroy shirt and jacket. The jacket had patches on the elbows, so I looked professorial. I remember one pair of corduroy pants that I wore so often, the ridges wore off the pants at the thighs. In the end they were a motley pair of pants without much style, but I wore them anyway because they fit me so well and damn they were comfortable. One day they just fell apart in a washing machine in Waterville Maine and the next day I washed my car with the remains.
I know that this will come off as though I am a skiing snob, but I do not usually ski on groomed trails. In fact for the last twenty years of my life, since leaving New England in the rear view mirror, I have been avoiding groomed trails, other skiers, and especially snow boarders like the plague. I go where the snow is natural and where machines can not get to it, and I challenge myself by skiing what mother nature has left behind. It isn’t always pretty and sometimes it is fairly dangerous, but over the years I have learned and acquired the skills necessary to navigate a mountain by myself on skis. And when I encounter a boarder out there, it is not an issue, because I respect their desires too. A boarder in back country is a fellow enthusiast; a boarder on the trail enroute the lodge is a nuisance to be avoided.
My days on “the slopes” are behind me and unfortunately ahead of me as well. I will not be able to ski in these kinds of back country conditions much longer. The skiing requires too much physicality and I am in short supply of this precious stuff these days. But for the moment, what still interests me about skiing is the seemingly endless possibilities of conditions, terrain, and snow. If I can still ski it, then I do. I like the challenge and I enjoy the satisfaction of doing it. That is not to say that I can’t enjoy a good warm up run on a groomer every once in a while. There is a certain satisfaction to be had looking back up the corduroy at your turns coming down. I have skied with some people who use an App to monitor their speed; you can hit sixty on a well groomed trail if you want to. But the real reason why the corduroy is so inviting is because you don’t have to think much while on it. The feeling is akin to driving on a straight, flat stretch of highway, in the middle of nowhere; you’ve got your favorite music playing and the cruise control is on. The only thing missing in that image is a twelve ounce can of beer between your legs! That is what a lap on a groomer feels like to me.
Many mountains have a top to bottom trail that is groomed nightly. The Snowbowl for sure. Some of the most memorable groomers to be had in the USA are at Breckenridge; you’ll find camera men there and the vistas are great. I am totally in favor of this; for a skier with good ability, it is the thrill of a lifetime to be at 12,000 feet in elevation on a slope of 30 degrees or so and a carpet of corduroy stretched out before you. Everyone should experience that. Years ago I got a chance to ski a little ski resort in California called Kirkwood. The place has it all in terms of terrain, including a groomed back diamond trail from the top, that makes you feel like you have died and gone to heaven! I stumbled upon it after a near death experience involving a cornice and drop into a chute of maybe five feet or so that made me dizzy with fear. I almost never experience vertigo while skiing but at Kirkwood there were a few times that day that I felt like throwing up and skiing the groomed trail Zachary from top to bottom a couple of time, revived me.
Sometimes you just need to take it easy. There is nothing wrong with that, I remind myself. It is good for the soul; the body needs a break. Then again for an adrenaline junky like me, it is hard to rest. Throughout my life, I have always done things the hard way. Over the weekend, a skiing friend of mine, Robby Sussman dropped in with his girlfriend Susan for some drinks and a little socializing. They were just passing through Arizona, checking it out. Naturally the topic turned to why? “Why do you guys ski like that?” “That doesn’t sound like fun to me” both Susan and my wife Cathie agreed. They were wondering why we ski in the trees and in these conditions where there is just deep snow. The answer is simple, that we are not after fun. If we were looking for fun, we would be skiing corduroy! We are into the rush that you get, when you think that the next move that you make, might be your last. We thrive on the satisfaction that you experience when you reach the bottom, stop, and look up at what you just skied down. We like the feeling that you get when you link together many perfect turns in knee deep snow.
I skied in British Columbia with Robby this year and it worked out great for me; for Robby not so good. He is a much better skier than me and quite a bit younger, so I held him back which felt horrible. He was always waiting for me. On one of the steepest trails, I skied past Robbie and found myself in a dilemma. In order to reach my partner I had to ski down a snow covered rock face and through two tree wells with just enough spacing for my skis. I had to carry enough speed down the slope to reach a higher elevation and Robby on the other side. He coaxed me through it and I survived! It was an experience that I will likely not forget as I get older.
The buddy system is essential to back country skiing but it is also a trade off. There is seldom a perfect match. It’s like a marriage in the sense that there is always the common dominator, and a single goal- you both want to get back up and take another run. But how you get there, when, and what you encounter along the way, are significant issues that can cause strife. Seriously I have seen a ski pairing ruin a decade long friendship; that is how much emotion is invested in the outcome. It all comes down to a matter of risk; what each person is willing to do in order to get the thrill that he or she is seeking. Some people require more risk than others.
As the day wore on and I tired of the groomers and corduroy, I noticed that the hiking terrain above the Agassiz chair was open. The sun was shining and the snow was softening up, so I put my skis on my shoulder and took the first set of steps up, on an attempt at 12,000 ft. I do this at least once every season, as if it is a litmus test of my health, and today was a perfect opportunity. It did not distress me that I could see two boarders up ahead. There is safety in numbers and as usual I was skiing alone. So I did my best to keep them in sight, even while I was bent over in search of air at times, head hanging down, my right hand on my right knee to rest.
The hike is more than a half hour in good conditions. I started out strongly but wore down as the top came into view. I could feel my heartrate exceeding 150 beats per minute and the spells of rest that I took did not cut the hyperventilating as I got closer to the top. The boarders were getting further away from me too which meant that I would likely ski down alone after them. I decided to traverse below the summit and I put my skis on and bailed on the hike. I suppose that this all happened at an elevation of 11,750 or so, about half of my goal. I took the traverse deep into the bowl and then dropped into a forty degree descent.
Halfway down the bowl I stopped. It was as if I was in the middle of a convex mirror and I was at the focal point. There is really nothing quite as breathtaking as skiing above the tree line. I had to squint looking up at what I had just skied down. The conditions were perfect, hard and firm, but the surface of the snow was warming up so that I could carve a turn to slow myself down. This snow is sometimes called crud or snot. Why do I always make things so hard on myself; why do I lose interest in the mundane and the commonplace so quickly? Why not pickleball or golf? These are the kinds of difficult questions that I am asking myself these days. How did my peaceful retirement become so difficult; why don’t I just ski the corduroy? If anyone can answer that question for me, I would appreciate hearing from you!
Then I turned and looked down the bowl at what I had left to ski. There ahead of me, way down below, was the groomed trail to the bottom. You can see it in the picture where the little dots are skiing. It is the trail from top to bottom at the Snowbowl; groomed all the way down to the Agassiz Hut and bar. “I’ll just reach that and then take it easy on the rest of the way to the bottom,” I thought. “No I won’t” I said to myself, “I have never skied into those trees on the right and made my decent to the lodge through the glades on the far right of the trail. And so I head off down the fall line, toward the object in this picture off in the distance, off the beaten trail, and into the wilds, where there is just snow and trees. I have plenty of time to ski groomers; one day fairly soon, I will have nothing but corduroy to look forward to.
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HIGH HOPES
The right side of the trail is crud; there is corduroy to the left. Before I know it, my feet and gravity are making choices for me. Ski the fall line they stomp and so begins the accelerating descent. I can hear the crunching of the snow under my pressing, flat skis. Ski the future I think looking down the steep slope of High Hopes.
The turns are linking together faster and faster; there is no turning back once I commit. The possibilities are everywhere around me; huge stashes of soft bumps abound. Cedar and pine limbs draped in sheets of white above my head. The light snow is falling steadily, but nothing is obscured. I am skiing into a void it seems; there is nothing of substance beyond here and now.
I am leaning into the slope, setting an edge when necessary, letting my skis get out in front of me when I can. This is the work of delight. My breathing is audible, thighs stiffening, and the heart rate is quickening. That is the extent of my self-awareness; that and an element of fear setting in.
High Hopes. My exuberance is infectious. I can sense the joyous skiers above me, following me over the craggy drops, past these cedars and pine trees, and into this soft ravine. Who wouldn’t want to go this way? Who wouldn’t want to bathe their senses in the drifting snow below, the white pillows that await the inevitable fall from grace?