The tip of one of my skis is wedged in the snowbank to my left. The other one is several feet below me. I’m still clipped into them, but my legs are spread wide, my hands punched into the snow in front of me. As I thrash around to regain a standing position, I apologize to oncoming racers, while frustratingly mumbling under my breath. I skin a few more feet up the hill, before pulling off to the side to let a couple of them pass. They do so gliding by gracefully and voicing their encouragements. This is my third ski-mountaineering race ever and I’m doing a spectacular job at messing up just about every part of the process.
I got my introduction to the racing side of the sport at Copper Mountain in Colorado as part of the SnowSports Industries America Snow Show (SIA) trade show ski demo in January. Most racers wore dress-up costumes, the course was pretty casual, and I had one too many margaritas the night before to really take the event seriously–a perfect initiation. Then a couple weekends ago I raced in Santa Fe, New Mexico on a more technical course. Costumes were traded for skin suits and it was a head down, all out, lung-and-quad-searing affair the whole way. Despite some fumbling around on transitions and downhills, I still got it done without too many issues. Now, however, in Taos, there is no faking of my ability or compensating for lack of technique by breathing a little harder. Every flaw in my skiing, particularly under pressure of the ticking clock, comes out in a comical display of amateurism. My style could be best equated to a bodybuilder trying to rock climb for the first time–promising on paper, but a disaster in practice.
The uphill track is mostly tight, tree skinning up steep, bumpy slopes. This leaves no room for imperfections on turns, requiring precise wielding of the planks, a technique called the kick-turn. After several hundred of these, my already poor form further deteriorates, as I snag more brush and stab my skis more frequently into the snow banks. At the top of the climb, we are rewarded with 20 seconds of blissful downhill on a blue, groomed run. Unfortunately, the red pin flags marking the way lead us back into the forest for some steep, black, mogul runs. I let out a bunch of expletives, narrowly avoid impact with a tree, and cartwheel my way down to the bottom.
At the transition for the second climb, I notice my skins aren’t sticking to the bottom of my skis too well anymore. Skins are essentially a piece of carpet with glue on one side applied to the bottom of the ski and the other furry side contacting the snow, enabling uphill travel. When they work, they are great, but a number of factors such as snow conditions, temperature, and poor technique can lead to them not sticking to the skis which is obviously quite problematic.
About halfway up the climb, they give out on me completely and I’m forced to switch to my second set. I also make an attitude adjustment not to be frustrated and instead be accepting of the situation, trying to enjoy the remaining miles without any thoughts of racing. I’m relieved to reach the bootpack section, where racers attach their skis to their packs before kicking steps up a steep slope, pulling hand over hand on a rope to aid forward progress.
This is short lived, however, and leads to another technical downhill, where I lose a pole basket. This seemingly trivial issue is actually quite annoying, since with every stride the shaft punches into the snow to the handle further debilitating me on the uphill.
The final climb ascends the 12,481-foot Kachina Peak, which I hike almost the entire way with my skis strapped to my pack as both sets of skins are now done.
It’s quite chilly and windy on the ridge, but my attention is focused on the terrain to my left, steep couloirs which appear to be the only way off the top. A fall would definitely have quite severe consequences and my skiing ability leads me to believe that I might get to experience some of them.
The first part of the descent isn’t too bad, though, but as I have come to expect with this race, the little red pin flags lead me off the pleasant looking slope ahead, into a steeper, tighter chute, with protruding rocks which necessitates your actually knowing how to ski to get down. But, since my know-how is limited, I slide sideways down the bumps, somehow avoid the rocks, and finally regain the groomer that leads to the finish.
While the race was well above my pay grade in terms of technical ability, I had a great time thrashing my way around the course. Being a beginner keeps me engaged, forces me to relinquish any kind of ego in competition, and opens the door to a wide realm of new possibilities for progression. Ultimately, I go to the mountains to be challenged and hopefully share the experience with good people. With both of those boxes checked, I looked forward to giving skimo racing another go in the near future.
Call for Comments (from Meghan)
- For those who have raced ski mountaineering before, do you remember what your first season of racing was like? How comical were you in your technique and how much was your honed endurance engine limited by your technical inabilities?
- Do you see any parallels between early career aspects of trail racing and ski-mountaineering racing?
