Stratton, Vermont – December, 1988. I had seen him ski my whole life, all eight years of it theretofore, but the smoothness never ceased to amaze me, inspire me. In a Nevica one-piece, red and purple, so freaking fly, I could easily pick him out amongst the hordes of Massholes and yapping New Yorkers careening on the icy slope. Skis together, shoulders inevitably square to the fall line, cruising, smiling wide, sunglasses on, obviously no hat or helmet, he was (and is) the coolest guy I know. His skiing style hasn’t changed an iota all these decades later, even if his kit has caught up with the moment. The signature arc of his turn, hips flexed, it is an image that is indelibly imprinted on my brain.
Snowbird, Utah – February, 1999. For a woman reluctant about speed and terrified of heights, it dawned on me as I turned the corner into adulthood that she was ripping the piste effortlessly. It was a fact that I realized I had taken for granted or at least not truly considered until I watched her schuss in that unmistakable stance – forward leaning, boots pressed together, flying. Athletic, graceful, and uncharacteristically understated in just the best way. The incredible part is that she has retained all the signature elements of her style while somehow getting better every year, even into the present day as she shreds with her granddaughter. And the outfits – gems! – you better believe that the most stylish person I know had a cavalcade of ski clothing somehow simultaneously of and ahead of its time.
Val D’Isere, France – March, 2004. He was skiing in jeans and a jacket that was missing its sleeves and was still absolutely maching in that ferocious way of his, weaving nonchalantly through the Euro crowds. With deep apologies to his father, he is clearly the best skier in the family, a preternatural calm and control allowing him to lay down carves that make one stop and stare. With no race background, he still has that same aggressive approach to the mountain and the equivalent technical proficiency. Younger than me, I was the one following him around, scared but not about to let anyone know it, sending things after him that I would never have done on my own. If could draw, I could paint the most beautiful portrait of his skiing from deep in my memory.
Vail, Colorado – November, 2025. I knew from the time that she was a tiny tyke that she would have a particularly distinctive ski style – she was her own woman from birth. Her super mellow, super laidback approach is not what a race program would have instilled in her, but her coach was very amateur, so she had to fend for herself, discovering quickly the intoxicating mix of speed and expression. Surfing the slope, arms down and back, tunes in her ears, she is free to be herself. She is so chill as to be unflappable, laying down sinuous and gorgeous turns, always aware, always adjusting, always steady. I’m just glad that she still lets me ski with her, giggling on the chairlift with her cadre. It is a trip to time warp from the era that she was skiing between my legs to now outpacing me.
Skiing is, was, and forever will be the foundation. One of its constituent building blocks is the unique style that everyone with whom I have ever skied has brought to each run. I can easily picture the posture of each of my childhood ski friends – Michael and Eric and Thor and Danny and Rich and all the rest – even thirty-five years later I know exactly what each of them looked like as they bombed the hill and what they would ski like if they were beside me today. The same holds true for my college crew and the Powder Posse and my ex-wife and ex-girlfriends and my backcountry squad and Christopher and Mary and (girl) Alex and even the mere acquaintances that I see frequently in line at G1. Each of us leaves our personal stamp upon the sport, one that, given its inherent plyometric movements, has much more nuance than our methods of walking or other conveyances.
I rarely see photos or videos of myself skiing, but I’m told that my wide stance and splayed arms are reminiscent of Papa’s eagle-wing style. It is a stylistic lineage that I am proud to bring to each winter.