Self destruction has always been cool. Kurt Cobain, infinitely cool. Chris Farley, cool. O.D.B., absolutely, undeniably cool. Snowboarding is a veritable factory of cool, not to mention product tie-ins. Whatever your take on the legitimacy of that sport as a something more than another market, as an art or religion for some, the ever-changing styles in snowboarding are a fantastic catchall for continuing product development. Now why am I talking about snowboarding, aside, obviously, from it being really cool? Because skiing is snowboarding's nearly washed-up older brother banking on lil' bro's success for its own resurrection, and it's doing quite well. Snowboarding is still probably setting the curve but that's really no matter at this point. The point is, in developing the sport we all love we've amalgamated developments that serve to pull the proverbial gun closer and closer to our collective foot.
Heads will shake and fists will pump, but for the sake of this article your counter-opinions are being rendered worthless when I say global warming and the effects of the newly minted Anthropocene Era are now fact. Every mile you drive to your hill, every lift ride you make, every groomer you ski is drawing all of us closer and closer to a world that gives even less notice to the world of snowsports. Think about it, a Pisten Bully park groomer burns about four and a half gallons of diesel an hour. When the groomers shut down in the morning, booters properly Wu-ed, ski outs buffed and your favorite lanes of cord beckon that achingly slow line of cars trawling along behind that one guy in front who put on his chains despite the bare road begins its march to the parking lot. Once it's there, let's say the road wasn't bare and there are 3 feet of fresh caking trees and power lines, so much snow in fact, that power has been knocked out so the lifts are on diesel. You can practically smell the snow melting. Alright, the lifts are too crowded, you want nothing to do with the tourist rabble with their Acura MDXs and Atomic Metrons, you're going to load up the truck and take your new Summit 800 out in the BC, which is safe thanks to the Howitzer rounds fired at it in the wee hours of this beautiful, hazy morning. But what else are you going to do, tour? How excruciatingly slow and lame. You eat bacon, not granola. The fact is, our entire sport has been built to spite itself, which is, in fact, what makes it so cool. The aspects of skiing that do it little to no harm are relics reserved for magazine retrospectives on the yester-years of Jackson and skinny guys in last year's Arc'Teryx talking about the pit they dug this morning. So, suicide is where the money is. We enjoy our easy access park and pow fix. It's there, it's easy, it's fun and it's sick, brah.
Then again, one could suppose that it's all really the fault of those who allow themselves to remain in the sport with any aspirations outside of market forces. The sport was built by lumberjacks and floats on the success of developers. All of the soul and individuality claimed in snowsports' styles are really perfectly placed product promotions at an underutilized target markets of indy-fag-hipsters from Seattle, and yippies from the Bay. So just remember, when you finally get to buy that sled so that bad park days can be turned to fruitful backcountry expeditions, you're gallantly doing your part to keep the American dream of prosperity alive, because infinite growth is the heavenly mandate of the land. But do us a favor and remember not to teach your kids too much about what powder used to be and remember that we're all digging our own graves.
Heads will shake and fists will pump, but for the sake of this article your counter-opinions are being rendered worthless when I say global warming and the effects of the newly minted Anthropocene Era are now fact. Every mile you drive to your hill, every lift ride you make, every groomer you ski is drawing all of us closer and closer to a world that gives even less notice to the world of snowsports. Think about it, a Pisten Bully park groomer burns about four and a half gallons of diesel an hour. When the groomers shut down in the morning, booters properly Wu-ed, ski outs buffed and your favorite lanes of cord beckon that achingly slow line of cars trawling along behind that one guy in front who put on his chains despite the bare road begins its march to the parking lot. Once it's there, let's say the road wasn't bare and there are 3 feet of fresh caking trees and power lines, so much snow in fact, that power has been knocked out so the lifts are on diesel. You can practically smell the snow melting. Alright, the lifts are too crowded, you want nothing to do with the tourist rabble with their Acura MDXs and Atomic Metrons, you're going to load up the truck and take your new Summit 800 out in the BC, which is safe thanks to the Howitzer rounds fired at it in the wee hours of this beautiful, hazy morning. But what else are you going to do, tour? How excruciatingly slow and lame. You eat bacon, not granola. The fact is, our entire sport has been built to spite itself, which is, in fact, what makes it so cool. The aspects of skiing that do it little to no harm are relics reserved for magazine retrospectives on the yester-years of Jackson and skinny guys in last year's Arc'Teryx talking about the pit they dug this morning. So, suicide is where the money is. We enjoy our easy access park and pow fix. It's there, it's easy, it's fun and it's sick, brah.
Then again, one could suppose that it's all really the fault of those who allow themselves to remain in the sport with any aspirations outside of market forces. The sport was built by lumberjacks and floats on the success of developers. All of the soul and individuality claimed in snowsports' styles are really perfectly placed product promotions at an underutilized target markets of indy-fag-hipsters from Seattle, and yippies from the Bay. So just remember, when you finally get to buy that sled so that bad park days can be turned to fruitful backcountry expeditions, you're gallantly doing your part to keep the American dream of prosperity alive, because infinite growth is the heavenly mandate of the land. But do us a favor and remember not to teach your kids too much about what powder used to be and remember that we're all digging our own graves.
