Thursday, September 19, 2019

The Crag and The Hawk


(An essay for an Environmental Communication course)
Roughly a year ago I started rock climbing outdoors. Little did I know that doing this would change the course of my life forever and would have me utterly addicted to the sport. Yet, it is not just the act of climbing that lures me back into the mountains time after time to ascend the rock. Mysteriously, it is the rock itself that continues to bring me back.
I started climbing in the gym but after my first proper outdoor session, I never stepped foot back inside one again. There’s something about the mountain air on your skin as you’re suspended dozens of feet off the ground on a cool, gigantic rock face that is enchanting. At the end of each climbing session, however tired you may be, you are left with an unquenchable thirst for more – to come back the next day and get after it once again. It can be cold or hot, windy or even rainy, but when you’re up on that rock face you cannot feel any of that external stimuli. You become the rock in the sense of how fortified your psyche is at that present time. It’s as if you are you are the same with that rock. Like the rock is climbing itself, as silly as that may sound.  
Take for example rock climbing in the desert. Out there, beyond the furthest reaches of civilization, you are on your own, at the will of the elements, far from the likes of man. Here, survival comes as intuitively as the path you walk through the desert sands amongst the junipers and cacti. The desert is as enchanting as it is empowering, and when you throw climbing in the mix it’s taken to a whole new level. 
On the way to the desert crag in which I am walking towards to climb, my feet somehow know to guide me in the path of least resistance and most shade, if there is any at all. I flow through the desert tides with ease, like a sailing vessel harnessing a big wind. Meanwhile, my eyes are locked and focused up ahead; my neck slightly canted upwards as I stare at the giant wall I am about to ascend with gear and my climbing partner. The closer I get to this rock the more alive I feel. My heart beats faster, my skin perspires a little more, my throat muscles contract – I am thirsty, but the thirst I have is not the kind that can be quenched by liquids. I crave this rock how desert succulents crave water. Yet, when I am geared up and ready to climb this big wall – which I know may take several hours and use up all the energy I came here with - I fall into a state of unexplainable calmness. 
Some would call it tranquility. As my mind becomes still, my breathing slows down, and I am only focused on the rock in front of me. The smooth feel of the desert sandstone becomes ever more prominent as my sense of touch is heightened, along with my other senses. My vision becomes sharper as my eyes start to see where my next moves on the wall will be, even though my mind doesn’t seem to be giving it much thought. My ears tune in to the sound of my hand and foot placements on the wall and to the sifting of the sand on the rock. I hear the breeze grow in ferocity the further I ascend, like a melody that’s older than time itself. This same wind cools my body somehow promoting an energized sensation only adding to my stamina. I keep climbing.
My mind is as still and as silent as the rock that is currently holding my life. If I stop and look down I can see the progress I’ve made. My climbing partner now looks like an ant on the desert floor below. I start to feel a tingle of fear trickle down my spine. I grip the crag evermore tightly for a second only to have this fear be absorbed by the rock allowing the stillness to return. My hands and feet start to move on their own again and I am re-submerged in a state of flow. 
On this desert crag, I forget who I am. I forget what I am. I am just there – I just am. I am an extension of the rock. It’s an empowering feeling that is counterintuitively relaxing at the same time, in a way I’ll never truly understand. As I continue to climb and place gear, I may stop to catch my breath for a moment. This is when I notice the inhabitants of this crag and the desert with whom I am currently sharing. 
I spot some grass growing in the rock, a hundred feet up off the ground. I wonder: how does this living entity thrive here, in the scorching heat of the desert, way up on this unforgiving rock? How does it survive, day in and day out? Besides the heavy load of water I brought with me, I haven’t seen the stuff for miles around. Yet, as fortified as the rock in which it is growing out of, this little desert shrub lives on. 
Further captivated, I examine the shrub on the wall and realize it is not the only one besides me up here. There are insects crawling around. There is bird poop on the rock next to me. I can begin to see the entire universe that comprises this rock come into play, made up of an unthinkable number of organisms – from the grass to the insects to the birds flying around it and nesting and so forth. Above, like the stars in the night sky comprising the universe in which we live, below is no different. As above, so below, a wise man once said. It all starts to make sense now. I close my eyes and picture this series of infinite universes within themselves start to come into play. The wind picks up into a howl and I breathe in deeply, realizing that I am not apart from this desert world in which I’ve found myself. I am this desert world, I am the wind howling. I realize that as I breathe in the crisp, untainted desert air, in a way I am actually breathing in my self. And I smile. 
My climbing partner calls from below and asks if I’m doing alright. I realize that I’ve paused and had my eyes closed for longer than I intended to. I shout down a phrase of reassurance, scan my beautiful surroundings from up high one more time, thanking it for its existence and its beauty. I look upwards and commence climbing once again, going for one last push to the top of the rock, that along with my rope and gear has held me on this existential journey up it. 
As I near the top, I realize that I am sweating profusely because my fingertips are losing their grip on the rock which has now become slick with the grease from my hands. I put some more climbing chalk on my fingers which I now connect to the fact that it is just as much from the earth as the crag that I’m climbing. What a strange thought to pop into my head, I think to myself, especially since the amount of genuine thoughts I’m having up here is undoubtedly limited by the state of flow I’ve found myself immersed in. A couple more big leg pushes with some good handholds and I find myself at the end of the climbing route, surprised. I’m surprised that the route is now over as if I hadn’t expected it to ever end. I am pleasantly surprised yet almost disappointed that there isn’t more rock to climb, that it just ends here at the top. Strange it feels to have climbed it. Because although I may have spent several hours climbing this tall crag lost in the mystery of the desert, the climb itself had ended just as quickly as it had begun. 
I realize now that this is probably how my entire life will feel once I’m at the end of it, as I know now that everything in this realm of the living is temporary. I stop to look around and only now can I comprehend how far of a distance I’ve traveled vertically up this rock. I’m impressed. Not with myself moreover, but with the rock, I have just climbed, and the exquisite desert it is in. That’s when my favorite part of the entire experience finds me. Directly above me, close enough to lock eyes with the feathered beast, I notice a large hawk soaring in the glow of the afternoon sun. 
The hawk is soaring above me in circles looking as magnificent as anything I have ever seen. The raptor is coasting on thermals, going up, down, and around, perplexed on the desert floor below it. We notice each other. It starts to feel as if this entire day spent climbing up this incredible wall that has empowered me into temporarily being the most powerful, in-tune version of myself, has led up to this moment. It’s led to this somewhat important seeming encounter with this eternal keeper of the desert. We communicate with one other, but not in words; not in any tongue or not with any way of thinking – at least, not in the conventional or human sense. I can’t help but be flooded with an innate sense of appreciation as if the hawk was channeling to me, showing me the beauty of his land of which I am a humble visitor. 
            Then I think back to the climb I have just completed. It’s like climbing this rock was an entry exam granting me access into the eternal realm that the hawk resides. By gaining acceptance, I briefly get to step inside his domain. I unfocus my eyes to try and take it all in - the hawk, the crag, the wide-open sky, the wind; but I can’t. It’s all too much to absorb. Instead, I allow this overpowering sense of gratitude to flow through me once again. However, I don’t grip on to this feeling, like the rock that brought me up to this point in the desert. No instead, I let it go. I let go of the last sliver of human intention and I surrender to this sense of gratitude. For it’s as though the desert is trying to get back in touch with its self that’s hidden deep within me. And I let it. 
           
Reflection
By the time we both got done climbing this huge wall, packed up our gear and started to head back through the desert landscape towards the vehicle to head home, the sun was setting. It was on this walk back that I tried to process everything that had just taken place in this outer-worldly beautiful and enchanting area of the desert which we just climbed. However, I had a hard time doing so because it was all too much. 
I try to replay the events of the day and the climb in my head, focusing on the best parts of it. Like the hard parts of the climb, staring at the grass growing on the rock, or my encounter with the hawk at the top. I try to relive it, to enjoy it again as fully as I did when it was happening. But I don’t find much success. As thankful as I am and as good as I feel about all of it having happened, I don’t understand why or how all these things came to be. I especially don’t understand the reasons why I felt this way, or why I feel this way now. Why I had these sort of connections, and how my now altered brain chemistry had played into it all. Which is when I wonder: perhaps I was never meant to understand these things at all? Maybe I was just meant to live them? To enjoy them.
This shoots me off into an even deeper rabbit hole of thought about the nature of life itself, and my place in the universe. I question whether we as humans are meant to understand these questions, or even be asking them. Maybe, we aren’t. Maybe, we are just meant to live our lives and experience this ride we call life, and that’s as far as it goes. Maybe the purpose of life is inherently simple; and that is, to just live it! 
The older I get and the more I learn, the less I know. However, the older I do get, the more comfortable I become with not knowing because I can start to accept that I actually don’t know anything at all. And that’s fine by me. Sure, I still plan to learn as much as I can until I have to leave this world, but I can now accept that there are some things I probably just won’t ever know or fully understand. I could go my whole life trying to find answers to life’s unanswerable questions. But I could also just accept that I don’t know, that I won’t ever fully know, and proceed to just live my life, happily. Otherwise, the alternative is to die consumed by these ponderings in a disturbed sort of way, as if I had failed by not finding the answers. Yet, I feel as though the hawk or the desert do not care for me to find these answers. Because they don’t even care about finding the answers themselves. 



Monday, September 16, 2019

How The Day I Almost Died Changed The Way I Ski

 Martin's metal There's a lot of metal in this body now...

I was certain that I was going to die when the ski patroller's face turned white as a sheet after cutting open my ski pants to reveal the broken femur bone protruding from the center of my thigh. It was New Year's Eve in 2014 as I lay bleeding out on the bottom of a small ski hill in the mountains of southern New Mexico.

"This is it," I thought. But hey, at least I died doing something I loved. I mean shit, it beat a hell of a lot of other ways to die.

 I started to think about the person who would have to be the one to deliver the bad news to my parents, and I pitied that person. Especially when my father would get word of it, the man who had taught me how to ski at the age of two, hearing about the tragic death of his son. I would have failed him as a skier and as a son because no parent should ever have to outlive their child.

Shortly, those thoughts began to fade out along with any fear or emotion I initially had. The warm embrace of death began to sweep over me like a woolen blanket on a frigid winter's night. I felt cozy. It was as if death itself was inviting me in, like a soft-spoken lover whispering into my ear, asking me to crawl into bed. I began to accept. I closed my eyes and started to surrender, allowing myself to be lured in, to the other side...

Ski Apache in Ruidoso, New Mexico
Ski Apache - The place where my life would change forever

...When the pale-faced ski patrol jerked me by the collar and slapped me in the face, bringing me back to the realm of the living.

"If you fall asleep now you won't wake back up," he said sternly.

That's all it took for me to snap back into this realm and put the other one on hold. I remembered that I wanted to live goddamnit! So with all my might, I fought the urge to fall unconscious.

"Just fucking do it!" I yelled at the patroller.

I bit down on my glove to brace for the pain of him setting my compounded femur bone back into place. There are not really words to describe that sort of pain, but know that it is as bad or probably worse than you can imagine.

You go numb for a second, then you go back in forth between blacking out and being enveloped by an earth-shaking sensation coursing up through your entire body in a painful, tingly sort of way. Everything moves slowly - lights are brighter and sounds are distorted. It's a weird headspace, almost dream-like, and absent of emotion. Although nightmare is probably a better word to describe it.

The worst part of the ordeal was the forty-five-minute wait for the ambulance to show up with the pain meds. It was the longest wait of my life and was filled with thoughts like, "will I ever ski again? Will I ever walk again?"

My right femur
Did a number on my femurs.

What I have just described is the day that I tried to see how close I could ski next to a snowmaker without hitting it. I did this because I believed I was invincible, and I did not care about the possible outcomes of my actions. On top of it, confidence in my skiing ability was at an all-time high. I was also drunk as a skunk at nine-thirty in the morning, which was probably a contributing factor. You can see the dominos start to line up.

I was convinced that I could ski directly towards a snowmaking machine and be able to duck out of the way of it last second because that's how much of a hardass I thought my seventeen-year-old self, was. But what was really at the root of all this was not confidence, it was anger. I was angry at this time for many reasons - none of which I hadn't brought upon myself. Really, I was angry at myself. This mix of drunken confidence and anger allowed me to not care whether I lived or died - if I had even given it that much thought to begin with.

Good ol patch'My home resort of Ski Apache. Credit: skiapache.com

It's the third run of the day - I am drunk. I am charged and stomping everything. I start the run down Capitan at Ski Apache, New Mexico, the main blue run that my friends and I always warm up on before going elsewhere on the mountain to ski. I'm ready for anything, or at least, so I foolishly thought.

I start the run with a nose-tap to 180 on the first snow-making machine at the top of Capitan. Boom, stomp. I land switch and proceed to ski that way down half the run. By the time I'm halfway down Capitan I'm bombing at about 40 mph, switch, when I revert back to forwards underneath the liftline. I'm hauling even more ass now, and everybody is watching. I loved being a show-off.

That's when I spot the snowmaker down the run towards the bottom. Alright, yeah. Why not flip the reaper off today? I'm drunk, mad, and convinced that I'm the best skier on the mountain. What do I have to lose?

I'm about thirty yards away from the snowmaker straight-lining right for it. Skis locked in and snowmaker straight ahead. I don't want to hit it, but shit, I do want to come damn near close. Then, about fifteen yards away from this devil, the unthinkable happens. I catch an edge on the outside edge of my right ski. In an instant, I am sailing towards this metal snowmaker through the air headfirst, full speed.
Deadly snow gun
Watch out, they come out of nowhere.

For what couldn't have been more than a second, I lock eyes with this snowmaker as I fly towards it without a helmet. I am staring death directly in the face traveling at a speed of about fifty-five miles per hour. Or at least, that's how fast the ski patroller who saw me hit it said I was going.

This was easily the longest second of my life. It was as if time stood still, giving me time to think about what was about to happen. In this strange second void of time, I was able to collect my thoughts and come up with a plan to not slam into this thing with my head and die.

So, as I'm flying towards my imminent death at a speed of fifty-odd miles per hour, I dig my hands into the snow below me with every single last ounce of life-force that I had left so that I could swing my body around and not hit this thing head first. If I didn't I would have been killed instantaneously. And for reasons I'll never understand, I just barely manage to pull off the most important feat of my life by swinging my body around, facing my head back up the hill and slamming into the snowmaker legs instead of headfirst thus saving my own life.

My friends who were on the lift that day when I slammed into the snowmaker and changed the course of my life forever said they thought they heard a stick of dynamite explode. This was actually my femurs snapping in half as I wrecked into the snowmaker. In a split second, like someone flipping a light switch from on to off, everything went completely numb.

After slamming into the snowmaker I was still conscious as I slid down the trail before coming to a halt several yards below. I could barely process what had just happened, and I refused to accept the stupidity of what I had just done. It was a textbook case of shock.

"Okay, Okay... I messed up, I winded myself, I may have broken my ankle -- but I'm not that hurt," I tried to reassure myself. Meanwhile, there was this faint little voice in the back of my mind that was whispering to me, saying "Ohhhh you're fucked. You've really done it this time."

"Alright. I can see the ski patrol headquarters at the bottom of the hill. I'll just get up, hobble down, and make my way over there and get myself checked out. No big deal."

Then I tried to stand up. I couldn't move or feel my legs whatsoever. I summoned up the courage to look down and that's when I saw that my ski boots were twisted around facing the other direction. My legs were bent in the most horrifying way, just as I had subliminally feared. The whisper in the back of my mind was now a full-on scream.

I laid there for a minute before an unlucky ski patroller came to sort me out. He immediately began calling for a helicopter on the radio, but to my misfortune, the voice on the other end of the walkie said that it was too windy and that an ambulance had already been dispatched instead. I thought he was going to vomit when he saw the damage I had done to my legs.

Surgery on my legs and hip
Five surgeries on my hip/legs and much, much metal deposited into my body later...

As a result of this stunt, I broke both my femurs, my knee, and my pelvis in three spots. What a way to start the new year by waking up in a hospital bed with almost all the bones below your waist completely shattered.

The next seventeen months would be the hardest I would ever endure, yet they made me who I am today. I spent the first five months in a wheelchair, then the next three on crutches, before moving up to a walking cane and finally regaining the ability to walk about nine months after I had wrecked. It would be almost a year and a half before I was completely healed and cleared by the doctor to ski again.

There was much time spent where I had doubts if I would ever ski again. At times I felt depressed and pessimistic. But I found a way to channel this negative energy into my rehabilitation - the mental, physical, and emotional strengthening that I would have to mindfully work on every single day.

Metal implants
Metal legsFull of metal now

I found a way to channel the negative into creating something positive. By doing this and taking it one day at a time (and a lot of marijuana), I was able to crawl out of that godforsaken hole. And I honestly couldn't have done it without my friends and family who helped me stay positive through this dark episode of my life.

Everyone who came and visited me when I was in my crippled state did more for me than they could ever know. When you're stuck in bed all day like that, not being able to move or walk around, even just the presence of someone that cares about you means more than words can tell. I wouldn't trade that shit for gold.

By the time I was miraculously healed and cleared to ski again, I had developed the most fortified, positive attitude that was possible for me to have. I now ski for my self and my self only - not to show-off or impress anyone. Skiing is sacred to me, especially now. It's how I find peace of mind.

As a result of this nightmare, I gained the utmost respect for life and the mountains, and now know that you can never take any of these things for granted. The snow, your health, your loved ones - all of it. Because one day, to your surprise, they may not be there.

It's truly a miracle that I walked away from all this without any significant change in my physical or skiing ability whatsoever, despite my legs being almost completely made of titanium now. I owe it all to the amazing doctors and ski patrol who literally saved my life that day. Even they don't understand how I got so lucky.

As of now I'm in the best shape of my life and am skiing harder than I ever have. Last season, four years from the crash, I skied one-hundred-and-nine days and had the best winter of my life. I expect to go even harder on the next one.

Each day I wake up and count my blessings and - in a way - I am thankful for this trying, transitional period of my life, brought about by my own malintent. You could even say that I'm glad it happened because I certainly wouldn't be who I am now if it hadn't. Just guess I just have to learn things the hard way sometimes.

Skiing the patch'
Myself pictured on the far right at Ski Apache, four years post-wreck with good company. Thankful.

A word from the wise: please respect the mountain and know your limits at all times. Shit does happen. Especially when alcohol is involved in the mix. Sure, it takes skill to be as moronic as I was this day, however, you never know when an unforeseen obstacle may pop out on the run in front of you when your judgment is impaired. Stay safe and stay blessed!



Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Average Ski Season Length May Be Cut In Half By 2050

Snow droughts are not good for the ski industry. Snow droughts are threatening the future of the ski industry. Credit:SnowBrains

Ski season is getting cut shorter every year due to climate change. A new study by the National Snow and Ice Data Center(NSIDC) suggests that if our climate continues to change at its current rate, then warmer winters will mean shorter ski seasons for mountains all over North America.

This article gives predictions based on research for average snowfall in the coming decades. Please take into account that these are predictions and do not guarantee complete accuracy. However, if the numbers are as bad as they say they are, then it is something that all of us as skiers need to recognize and act on immediately.

By 2050, several ski areas may have ski seasons lasting only half as long as they do now. It's an emergency for skiers and snowboarders everywhere.

Ski seasons are getting shorter.The percent change in average ski season lengths by 2050. Credit: Climate.gov

From 2008 to 2017, snowfall in the U.S. has decreased by 3.5% annually. As a matter of fact, average snow depths have been decreasing since the 1960s. It's not exactly a new issue. BUT what is especially concerning now is that we are seeing this decrease in a more accelerated way than ever before.

According to the Fourth National Climate Assessment, which provides a comparison of 1986-2016 temperatures to those for 1901-1960, the average temperature has increased across 95% of the United States' land surface. During these time periods, the most widespread temperature changes occurred in winter - as high as 1.5°F in most places. If left unchecked, these temperatures will only continue to rise, along with the climbing snow-line.

Snow droughts are hurting mountains everywhere. Snow droughts are periods of abnormally low snowpack for the time of year. Credit:Eos.org

Snow droughts are a major concern for the skiing community everywhere. As global temperatures rise and winters get shorter, more precipitation will fall as rain rather than snow. As a result, snow-lines will recede to higher elevations, causing lower elevation regions to suffer.

This has already become evident in parts of the Southwest, where snow is falling later in the year and retreating sooner. Continuing down this path of climate change, winters are projected to see fewer days below freezing, too.

Less days are falling below freezing every year.
The amount of days with temperatures below freezing is projected to decline due to climate change. Credit: Climate.gov

Shorter ski seasons could result in fewer visits to ski areas leading to the potential loss of hundreds of millions of dollars in the ski industry. This could not only hurt ski areas, but also the restaurants, bars, hotels, and other businesses that are directly reliant on snowfall bringing in visitors to ski destinations. No snow = no skiing = problems for everyone.

It shouldn't rain during the middle of the winter. Skiing in the rain is not fun for skiers and not profitable for ski resorts. Credit: SnowBrains

According to a report, by the end of the century “it will be too warm to snow in many current snow-producing situations, and precipitation will mostly be rainfall.”

High elevation mountain ranges map. Skiing may be limited to high elevation mountain ranges in the future. Credit: Climate.gov

Elevation will play a huge factor in the future of North American ski areas. Lower elevation ski areas will be the first to go, as winters may not be cold enough for rain to turn to snow below a certain elevation. This is bad news for coastal mountains or mountains with lower elevations, like many in the East Coast.

The East Coast is predicted to get hit by snow droughts especially hard in coming decades. While high elevation areas of the Rocky Mountains are expected to be seemingly fine throughout the middle of the 21st century, the average length of ski season in the East could be cut in half as soon as 2050. 


Ski season will be very short by 2090
The percent change in ski season length by 2090. Credit: Climate.gov

In Utah, the upper elevations of the Uinta Mountainsmay still receive snow while the Wasatch Range may be completely absent of snow by 2100. This could be fatal for the ski industry in Utah that is based mostly in the Wasatch. Yet, it goes further than just Utah. Many once-skiable parts of the country may stop receiving snowfall entirely by 2100, with snowfall being limited only to higher elevations.

The future of skiing will depend on the energy choices societies make right now and in the coming decades. Although some high elevation areas like the Rockies may still offer powder skiing for the next few decades, other parts of the country won't. More precipitation is already starting to fall as rain rather than snow in the winter, and the time to address these concerns is now if you haven't already.

Can we save the future of skiing? Credit: SnowBrains[/caption]Snow droughts are threatening the future of the ski industry. Credit:SnowBrains

Ski season is getting cut shorter every year due to climate change. A new study by the National Snow and Ice Data Center(NSIDC) suggests that if our climate continues to change at its current rate, then warmer winters will mean shorter ski seasons for mountains all over North America.

This article gives predictions based on research for average snowfall in the coming decades. Please take into account that these are predictions and do not guarantee complete accuracy. However, if the numbers are as bad as they say they are, then it is something that all of us as skiers need to recognize and act on immediately.

By 2050, several ski areas may have ski seasons lasting only half as long as they do now. It's an emergency for skiers and snowboarders everywhere.

Ski seasons are getting shorter.The percent change in average ski season lengths by 2050. Credit: Climate.gov

From 2008 to 2017, snowfall in the U.S. has decreased by 3.5% annually. As a matter of fact, average snow depths have been decreasing since the 1960s. It's not exactly a new issue. BUT what is especially concerning now is that we are seeing this decrease in a more accelerated way than ever before.

According to the Fourth National Climate Assessment, which provides a comparison of 1986-2016 temperatures to those for 1901-1960, the average temperature has increased across 95% of the United States' land surface. During these time periods, the most widespread temperature changes occurred in winter - as high as 1.5°F in most places. If left unchecked, these temperatures will only continue to rise, along with the climbing snow-line.

Snow droughts are hurting mountains everywhere. Snow droughts are periods of abnormally low snowpack for the time of year. Credit:Eos.org

Snow droughts are a major concern for the skiing community everywhere. As global temperatures rise and winters get shorter, more precipitation will fall as rain rather than snow. As a result, snow-lines will recede to higher elevations, causing lower elevation regions to suffer.

This has already become evident in parts of the Southwest, where snow is falling later in the year and retreating sooner. Continuing down this path of climate change, winters are projected to see fewer days below freezing, too.

Less days are falling below freezing every year.
The amount of days with temperatures below freezing is projected to decline due to climate change. Credit: Climate.gov

Shorter ski seasons could result in fewer visits to ski areas leading to the potential loss of hundreds of millions of dollars in the ski industry. This could not only hurt ski areas, but also the restaurants, bars, hotels, and other businesses that are directly reliant on snowfall bringing in visitors to ski destinations. No snow = no skiing = problems for everyone.

It shouldn't rain during the middle of the winter. Skiing in the rain is not fun for skiers and not profitable for ski resorts. Credit: SnowBrains

According to a report, by the end of the century “it will be too warm to snow in many current snow-producing situations, and precipitation will mostly be rainfall.”

High elevation mountain ranges map. Skiing may be limited to high elevation mountain ranges in the future. Credit: Climate.gov

Elevation will play a huge factor in the future of North American ski areas. Lower elevation ski areas will be the first to go, as winters may not be cold enough for rain to turn to snow below a certain elevation. This is bad news for coastal mountains or mountains with lower elevations, like many in the East Coast.

The East Coast is predicted to get hit by snow droughts especially hard in coming decades. While high elevation areas of the Rocky Mountains are expected to be seemingly fine throughout the middle of the 21st century, the average length of ski season in the East could be cut in half as soon as 2050. 


Ski season will be very short by 2090
The percent change in ski season length by 2090. Credit: Climate.gov

In Utah, the upper elevations of the Uinta Mountainsmay still receive snow while the Wasatch Range may be completely absent of snow by 2100. This could be fatal for the ski industry in Utah that is based mostly in the Wasatch. Yet, it goes further than just Utah. Many once-skiable parts of the country may stop receiving snowfall entirely by 2100, with snowfall being limited only to higher elevations.

The future of skiing will depend on the energy choices societies make right now and in the coming decades. Although some high elevation areas like the Rockies may still offer powder skiing for the next few decades, other parts of the country won't. More precipitation is already starting to fall as rain rather than snow in the winter, and the time to address these concerns is now if you haven't already.

Can we save the future of skiing? Credit: SnowBrains[/caption]

Sunday, September 8, 2019

Whitewater is Recruiting Volunteer Patrollers for the 2019/20 Season

Volunteer to be a Whitewater patroller. On average, 40 feet of snow falls on Whitewater every year. Credit: Whitewater Ski Resort

Whitewater Ski Resort is searching for volunteer patrollers who are willing to work a couple of weeks out of the season in exchange for a season pass and staff benefits. Here's everything you need to know about Whitewater and this sweet opportunity to become an important part of its community.

A map of Whitewater.Whitewater Ski Resort trail map. Credit: blue-globe.org

Nestled deep in the heart of the Kootenay Mountains of British Columbia lies Whitewater Ski Resort - a powder playground that receives upwards of 40 feet of snow every year! The ski area is situated just outside of the lovely, die-hard ski town of Nelson, where everyone and their mother are ripping righteously deep powder on any given day of the season.

Nelson in the Winter.Nelson, British Columbia - where powder skiers die and go to heaven. Credit: Mountain Hound Inn

On top of ungodly amounts of pow, Whitewater is known for its endless terrain consisting of fun, flowy steeps as well as its absence of crowds. On a midwinter's pow day you can make fresh turns in zones that'll have you feeling like you're skiing in the backcountry rather than a resort, with no other rippers in sight. The good news is, Whitewater is looking for ski patrollers right now- especially new ones. 

Whitewater is recruiting volunteer patrollers that will work 14 days out of the season in exchange for a season pass and staff benefits. It's a pretty killer way to score a season pass and get to know one of Western Canada's best, deepest ski areas. Here's what the position entails:

Whitewater is a powder skiing paradise. Steep and deep. Credit: OnTheSnow

The volunteer patroller position at Whitewater is a mentorship opportunityNew patrollers will shadow an experienced Whitewater patroller for 2 days and work a total of 14 days throughout the ski season in exchange for a season pass and staff benefits. Their responsibilities include:
  • Being responsible for providing first aid to injured guests and staff
  • Assisting in risk management and general mountain safety to reduce or eliminate hazards
  • Participating in avalanche safety procedures such as blasting and ski cuts. 
  • Lift evacuations
  • Search and rescue operations
Requirements for the volunteer patroller position are:
  • Avalanche skills training level I
  • Either occupational first aid level III or an 80-hour advanced first aid certificate
A patroller throwing dynamite.
A patroller blasting for avalanches. Credit: Association of Professional Patrollers

Returning volunteers will also receive additional staff benefits.  If you are interested in volunteering for a season at Whitewater, click here for more details on how to apply for the position.

Ski patrollers save lives. Every day. They make the big decisions on what's safe to ski each day and what's not. They are the unsung heroes of ski areas everywhere. Yet, the job is not easy nor for everyone.

Being a ski patroller can be high-stress and incredibly physically demanding. However, it is also extremely rewarding, especially when you get to ski chest-deep powder all season long in a place like Whitewater. That gap year you've been meaning to take? Well, that may just end up being what you do with the rest of your years. 

Volunteering at Whitewater Ski Resort Got what it takes to be a Whitewater patroller?. Credit: Instagram/whitewaterskiresort


Friday, September 6, 2019

Love Em' Or Hate Em', We Need Jerries

A powerful Jerry woman. Tourist skiers - often labeled as "Jerries" - help to create the bulk of the revenue that ski areas make per season. Image: freeskier.com

Jerries, gapers, holiday-skiers - call em' what you like, but mountains across the nation are filled with them every year. They're not exactly the most desirable skier-type on the mountain, and you may even be one. The presence of Jerries on the hill is subject to much debate among people who consider themselves "real skiers," saying things like Jerries are ruining their lines or diminishing the overall enchantment that ski areas have been known to produce since their creations. 

However, the Jerries, coming in on their holiday vacations with the whole family - buying day passes, using rentals, and often wearing the highest quality or most expensive outerwear on the market (when they're not skiing in jeans and fur hats) are inherently vital to ski resorts. They are the real moneymakers for ski resorts everywhere, and we owe it to them to recognize that. 

Stats of Utah ski visits Utah Skier visits by year. Ski Utah

Utah is a prime example of the power that Jerry-kind wields. Ski resorts had their best season ever in terms of skier days in 2018-19 with a total of 5,125,441 visits. The vast majority of these visits were from out-of-state skiers and snowboarders. This resulted in a 12% increase from Utah's previous record of 4.58 million in 2016-17and a 24%increase from the previous season. That's billions of dollars of added revenue from out-of-state skiers coming in on ski vacations. 

Of course, the fact that Utah saw record-breaking amounts of consistent snowfall last season is a major contributing factor to the increase in winter tourism. But those Jerries are still racking up the cash as a result, because out-of-state skier and snowboarder spending amounted to $1.068 billion last season in Utah alone! Apart from the massive financial gains, this influx of out-of-state skier spending resulted in the creation of more than 21,000 jobs and $226.4 million in state and local tax revenues. These Jerries coming in on holidays are financial powerhouses and they don't even know it. And Utah is not the only region benefiting from this. 

The 2018-2019 season was the fourth-best season ever on record for skier visits in America. According to The National Ski Areas Association (NSAA), 59 million skiers visited ski resorts nationally. Every region saw an increase in skier visits, and the Rocky Mountain region set a new record of 24 million visitors. It's great news for skiing as ski resorts racked in over $3 billion in revenue last season and the industry has grown 3.6% since 2014. But why though? 

Ikon and Epic mega passesThe Ikon and Epic mega passes are increasing the revenue stream for the ski industry. Image:OutThere Colorado

Nathan Rafferty, president and CEO of Ski Utah, credits part of the big jump in ski tourism to the new mega passes such as Epic and Ikon.

He said that they present “a great tool industrywide” to give people “more options and make skiing more affordable.” 

It's estimated that over 1 million skiers and snowboarders bought either the Ikon or Epic passes last season alone, resulting in an increase in skier visits everywhere. These mega passes are a very heated topic and many claim they are killing skiing. Yet, regardless of what they say, the numbers are there. The Ikon and Epic mega passes are definitively helping the ski industry grow and increase its revenue every year. 

The Ikon and Epic Mega PassesImage:ZRankings

Because of the increased amount of money being made as a direct result of these mega passes, more money is being spent on ski areas in positive ways. This means more money is being spent towards improving facilities, mountain maintenance, safety and rescue operations, and environmental sustainability projects. Climate change is no longer a joke and ski areas will need all the money they can get to counter its vicious assault. 

A strong gaper gap shown here.
The gap is strong with this one. Image: Unofficial Networks

So when I find a family of Jerries in their natural habitat, blocking the take-off of a jump or lost down one of my favorite double-black zones of the mountain with their ski equipment sprawled all over the best parts of the line, I still got to hand it to them. Because even though I may hate to say it, these guys are affecting my mountain in a positive way.

The cash that out-of-state skiers and snowboarders are bringing in every year is making my ski area a better place. That same revenue is also what's keeping it alive. So I salute them. Because I want to see my ski area - and all ski areas for that matter - stick around for as long as possible, especially in a day and age where the thing I love most is threatened with the bleak possibility that there may come a day when my ski area becomes just an "area." Therefore, our future is in your hands, Jerry. Keep on sending!

Jerry sending Jerry ready to send. Image: SnowBrains