Through the urgent sweep of the windshield wipers and the thick curtain of blowing snow, I could just make out the tail lights of the car in front of us. We creeping along Route 82—Killer 82—heading northwest out of Aspen in a full-on blizzard, late on a Friday night.

“Umm, sure,” I said as the brake lights flashed on the car ahead and I downshifted to first.

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” she said, “that people ski the way they live their lives.”

The car in front of us pulled off at a convenience store to wait out the storm. The only guide we had now was the center line of the two-lane road, and it was disintegrating rapidly into a yellow blur beneath the accumulating snow. We inched along, nearly blind.

“How so?” I asked, peering over the wheel.

“Look at the people around you. Take Amy, for example,” Pat said, mentioning a friend who’s a student and part-time ski model. “She skis beautifully: smooth, in control, with purpose. That’s exactly the way her life is. Her sister, Val, on the other hand, skis just a little out of control, just a little wild…the same way she lives her life.”

I brought the car to a stop in the middle of the road. The pavement, the double yellow line, the shoulder, the guardrail—all completely obscured by the blowing snow. A Toyota 4Runner crept past us from behind, and I fell into line thankfully, fingers crossed that he wouldn’t mistakenly drive off a cliff with us following dutifully into oblivion.

Pat’s theory seemed to make sense, at least when I applied it to well-known skiers. Look at Glen Plake, a wild man on skis and off…and Stein Eriksen, a styler and gentleman in everything. The theory seemed to work with my friends, too: Casey, will to go anywhere or try anything…Tim, always looking to the next turn, always seeking perfection. Finally, I thought about my own skiing, only I turned the theory around: Do I live my life the way I ski, seeking adventure, new perspectives, fresh tracks, the view from the other side of the rope?

And what about you? How’s your skiing…and your life? Are you content…and comfortable with your contentment? Or are you pushing yourself, taking risks? Maybe this should be the season where you start getting air or venturing into the trees…or launching a new career or getting a tattoo.

Just southeast of Glenwood Springs, the Toyota turned off, the snow let up, and I was able to relax at the wheel. Talk turned to other things, but by the time we pulled into Pat’s driveway in Vail, I brought up here theory once again.

“Hey Pat,” I said as I turned off the ignition and the world fell to silence, “your theory left out one thing. What about people who don’t ski?”

“People who don’t ski?” A mischievous smile spread under her freckles, and she said, without a trace of seriousness, “Why would you even want to know them?”

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.1, September 1990. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

Got ’em? OK, now I want you to take all the credit cards out of your wallet and cut them into tiny pieces. Don’t balk now, this is important.

Now I want you to call your boss and tell him you quit. Then call your landlord and give 30 days notice, or put your condo up for sale. Finally, trade in that nice new Saab for a beat-up 4WD pickup.

Things are starting to sound a little grim, huh? But what if giving up all this stuff meant you got to live in Jackson Hole? What if, instead of heading off to the office tomorrow, you put on a pair of ski boots and climbed into the Jackson tram—and did that for the next 150 days in a row?

Would it be worth it? Most people say no, and that’s why IBM and Merrill Lynch are still in business. But there are a few who by their actions say yes, living in the mountains is worth giving up the comforts of a traditional career, and these people—the ski bums—are the true heroes of skiing.

Waaait just a minute, you might say. What about Scot Schmidt and Jean-Marc Boivin?

OK, I’ll admit Schmidt’s a ski hero. So’s Boivin—and the Mahres, too, and Plake and maybe even Bill Johnson. But the difference between those guys and your average ski bum is that they made skiing a profession, whereas a ski bum has probably abandoned a profession—or at the very least avoided one. In the ’90s, that’s nothing to smirk at.

Leaving the “real world” to be a ski bum is no simple task. Ten, fifteen, twenty years ago, it was much easier. Ralph Lauren was too busy selling neckties in Manhattan to think about buying ranches and boosting housing costs in Telluride. Resort cafeterias still gave away saltines. The world was much less manacled by the obsession for riches and “success”. But complaining about it is simply whining. The world just isn’t as romantic as it used to be, and you either learn to deal with it or you put on your beads and follow Jerry Garcia around for the rest of your life. Ski bums, as I see it, keep that romance alive in a sport (and country) that’s become horribly homogenized. It’s a monumental task—giving up the traditional paths to success and living in an expensive mountain town during the harshest, coldest months of the year without a “real” job.

I guess I see ski bums as nobler or more pure than the rest of us for their “sacrifice”—a funny thought since half my ski bum friends are dirtbags who are just as likely to be surf bums or climbing bums. This idea of purity through sacrifice springs from the timeless concept of pilgrimagem where you shed your material possessions and make a journey in hopes of attaining enlightenment. Enlightenment through ski bumming? Yeah, I know it’s corny—but what better way to justify eating Ramen noodles for dinner, having eight roommates in a two-bedroom apartment and busing tables for $2.50 an hour?

Even with a job that’s as fun as mine, the temptation to leave and spend a winter doing nothing but skiing is strong. I can spend hours thinking about joining my friends in Chamonix, Jackson, or Snowbird. Making first tracks all winter long…discovering for myself the secret hidden pleasures of the mountain…coming in tune with the subtle undercurrents of a season in the snow—someday these may be enough to pull me away. For now, though, I really like the traditional path…but that won’t stop me from sharpening my scissors one more time.

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.2, October 1990. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

Freefall has seen countless tracks the last few seasons, but once, just a couple years ago, it was an unskied, unnamed jewel begging for first turns. Then, one day, heli-skiing czar Mike Wiegele, photographer Gary Brettnacher, and a crew of guests made the first landing. As they stared nearly straight down at the pickup spot with a sense of vertigo, Gary pulled Mike aside.

“Mike,” he said, “I think this is going to be an epic run, maybe legendary. Wouldn’t it be nice if we shot some photos of you making the first-ever tracks?”

Wiegele’s not without a sense of history, and maybe there was a little ego involved, so he said eagerly, “Yes, yes, I think you are right.”

“OK, Mike, I’ll just ski on ahead, 20 yards or so. Give me a minute to set up, and then just ski toward me.”

G.B. grabbed his poles and started skiing. Mike smiled, thinking of all the years they’d been skiing together, all the Kodachrome they’d burned. He watched Brettnacher’s compact form move as a cloud blowing through the burned-out section. “Jeez, that looks like good snow,” he thought.

At 20 yards, Brettnacher gave a little hitch, but he didn’t stop. That’s OK, Mike thought, maybe he’s going to use a long lens. But Brettnacher kept going.

“Hey, he’s gone too far,” he said aloud. Slowly, it came to Mike. “Wait a minute, he’s not going to stop…he’s not gonna stop until he gets to the helicopter!BrettNAAAAAACHERRRRRR, you baaastarrrrrd!!!! Come back herrrrre!”

It was a hell of a chase.

The Greenhouse effect is a hoax.

In fact, the opposite is happening: We’re on the cusp of a new Ice Age. Yes, pilgrim, the globe is inexorably locked into…the Refrigerator Effect!!

I know, I know. It’s a shocking revelation, a stunner that goes against everything you’ve been told by The New York Times, Dan Rather, and our own beloved government. They’ve warned you about the ozone hole, about rising oceans and temperatures that’ll make Minneapolis look like the Mojave. Well, it’s all hogwash, a smokescreen blown by high-placed conspirators who don’t want to see their massive investment in sunscreen companies go down the tubes.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, despite the efforts of these swindlers, I’ve uncovered startling new evidence that global temperatures are falling. My findings are backed by highly regarded weatherologists who unfortunately must at this time remain nameless.

The actual evidence, however, isn’t so important as the implications of Global Chilling. See, if the world gets colder, we get more snow, and more snow means more face shots and more face shots means more skiers, which means we’ll sell more magazines which means I can retire to my chalet in the Dolomites before I’m 35.

But my retirement’s neither here nor there. What is here is the fact that it’s getting colder and it’s going to snow a lot more—a hell of a lot more. And it’s going to snow a lot lower—for every two degrees Centigrade the temperature drops, the snowline will fall 1,500 feet. Places that you’ve never even considered skiing will see first tracks…and second tracks…and third tracks.

Imagine! What would San Francisco be like in the grips of the Refrigerator Effect? You could telemark Telegraph Hill—piece of cake. Or Washington, D.C…slap on a pair of 215s, tuck Wisconsin Avenue and you’d be in Georgetown in minutes. Or L.A…lock into your snowboard at the Hollywood sign and 20 or so arcs later you’d be on Sunset.

What about the snow depth in places you already ski? Well, climatologists estimate a 15 percent increase in snow depth for every degree the global temperature drops. Two degrees means another 90 inches for Aspen, another 160 for Wolf Creek, 625 total. And British Columbia’s Mt. Mackenzie, which now gets 720 inches a year, will have 950!

Wait a sec. I have to stop here. I have to tell you the truth. Global Chilling isn’t occurring. It’s all a fantasy conceived on a sweltering summer day. I’m sorry. I lied.

But what if?

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.4, December 1990. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

It was one of those crystalline Vermont nights in January, the type of night so clear and brittle the world might shatter at the touch, so cold that normal actions seemed stupid, foolish ones beyond comprehension. Imagine, then, how dumb I felt sitting there bruised in the dark, having a miserable backcountry experience—and it wasn’t even in the backcountry. I’d tripped on a mogul on a ski trail within the boundaries of Mad River Glen.

For years I’d wanted to go into the backcountry, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t have any of the specialized equipment, nor would I have known what to do with it if I did. No one I knew skied the backcountry, and, besides, the eastern suburban sprawl and huge blankets of private property made the backcountry seem intangible, unlike in the West, where it lived and breathed on every mountain switchback.

Still, I desperately wanted the other ski experience, where turns are paid for in sweat and people are few and far between, where the rarity of the experience makes it more valuable. Then this idea to hike Mad River came to me like a revelation. The realization that that kind of maniacal revelation comes solely to extremists and medieval saints occurred to me only when I tried to get my friends to come along.

Well, with the exception of one, they blew it, because the stars were never brighter and the air was never cleaner. When the sun found us eating breakfast on a high cat-track, the alpenglow was richer and more intense than any I’d seen from a ski lift. We skied down, the two of us, past trees painted pink and over snow that throbbed in the early light. As we skated toward the parking lot at the bottom and passed the patrollers on their way up for the milk run, we felt a few hours short of sleep but a lifetime richer.

Not long after that, I started poking around in the trees at Mad River. I followed tracks, got lost, tore my parka on the puckerbrush, and made new friends who eventually gave me the key that unlocked such hidden tree runs as Paradise, the 19th Hole, and Octupus’s Garden.

That spring I moved to the West, and within a month Casey Sheahan, my roommate and co-worker, threw a tent, a bag of Oreos, and a pair of climbing skins into my pack and shepherded me from sea level to 13,000 feet in the eastern Sierra Nevada. It was a trial by fire, a pilgrim’s progress: I stumbled from the lightheadedness, puked because of the altitude, was awed by the granite spires and intimidated by unfamiliar skis that didn’t give me much control on snow that refused to turn to corn. I got blisters and spent a sleepless night in my summer-weight bag when the temperature plummeted to minus-35. That whole weekend in Rock Creek Canyon I had three good turns on soft snow…and yet to this day I can’t think of any other turns that remain so vivid.

Skiing in Rock Creek was different from Mad River not just because of the vast contrast in scale, but also because of the way it was backcountry. At Rock Creek, we drove up a road to the snowline, parked, and started walking. Unlike in the East, where you have to hop a fence, duck a rope, or cross an invisible boundary, there was no division between the backcountry and the rest of the country. It was just country, and any boundaries were simply self-imposed limitations. At the time I learned that, those little lines on maps and in my mind melted away, and anything that had snow on it became fair game. Since the time Casey tried to kill me in the Sierra, I’ve done a lot more touring. I spent a week skinning through British Columbia powder at Rogers Pass, traversed Italy’s Dolomite Mountains with nothing but one really stinky set of Gore-Tex, and skied at 18,000 feet on a Mexican volcano. I’ve been lucky. But if I’d never skied any of those places, if I’d never left Burlington, there’s no question that I’d still be whacking at the Mad River Glen underbrush, fighting for a lousy couple hundred feet of vertical, just as happy and content as I’d be anywhere else.

That, I suppose, is the backcountry allure.

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.5, January 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

I had good intentions. It was Christmas, a rare visit to the East Coast, and I couldn’t pass up a chance to ski with friends at the old stomping grounds of scenic Snowshoe, West Virginia. How could I—Snowshoe was where I jetted to when the demands of college were too great. It was the site of my first turns, of legendary crashes, mythic hangovers, epic losses and occasional Pyrrhic victories on the battlefield of love. Too, Snowshoe was where I spent the spring break that I punted on a book report on The Autobiography of Malcolm X, which led to my failing sociology, which led to my changing majors from business to journalism, which led to that little job at the New York Times, the Pulitzer Prize, fame, fortune, and, of course, this job.

So you see, I had sentimental reasons for going back to Snowshoe.

I was practically the only one willing to go. Dave, who’d been making turns by my side for so many years, said he had to alphabetize his albums. And Chip: golly, but he had to detail the cat’s litter box. Only Scott would go, blessed Scott, who was a rabid intermediate, undaunted by wind or rain or threat of slush.

So we steadfastly headed off into the night in my parents’ Ford LTD station wagon. It rained the whole way out of Washington, across the Blue Ridge, the Alleghenys, and into the Appalachians. It rained on the access road. It rained halfway up the mountain. Would it be snowing at the summit complex? Of course not.

And the next day it drizzled, and there I was, sitting in a puddle on a triple chair, feeling sorry for myself and feeling pretty darn stupid, too, when I started eavesdropping on the two guys sitting next to me.

They must have been about 25 or 26, and they were dressed in jeans and windbreakers—soaked, of course—and, as I noticed getting on the lift, each had a tin of chewing tobacco wedged into a back pocket, the bleached denim moon evidence of many a dip of Red Man. They were good ol’ boys, and their drawl was from somewhere south, way south. The far Carolina, it turned out, and they’d driven 16 hours to ski at Snowshoe.

“Man, did you see the air I got off the bump?! I musta had 10 feet. Haw! Haw!”

“Yeah, but you landed on yer head!”

“I know! Haw! Hey, this is great skiing, huh?”

“Yeah, way too good to go home already. One day’s not enough.”

“No way.”

They were silent for a minute, ruminating. The first one spoke up.

“Let’s not go back. Let’s stay another day! If we skip dinner we’ll have enough for another lift ticket. Think we’d get fired if we missed a day of work?”

“Probably…”

“Let’s do it!”

“Yeah! Haw! Haw!”

The chair deposited us at the summit a few minutes later, and the boys madly pushed off into the mist. I stood there for a second watching them go, then glanced at the warm lodge, back at them, back at the lodge. I heard a whoop and holler as they disappeared, and that was all it took. I zipped my collar up tight and skated off after them.

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.6, February 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

I find it ironic, then, that at a time when walls of international and social consequence are tumbling another wall is being built on a foundation of silliness—a wall between skiers and snowboarders.

I’ve seen both sides—been called a wanker two-planker when I was on my skis and a knuckle-dragger when I was on my board—but nowhere have I seen the fray so fractious as in our letters to the editor. There’s one guy who’s written a couple times, letters filled with such vitriol and obscenity against snowboarders that I pray he doesn’t own a gun. His are like so many of the other anti-snowboarding letters out there: snowboarders are dumb, loud, out of control, unathletic, unworthy to be on the mountain, and most definitely unworthy to be in Powder. The letters from the snowboarders, on the other hand, are defensive, bewildered, and almost innocent: they can’t understand why anyone would have such strong negative feelings toward this simple, young sport.

Nor can I. I’m a bit confused by the whole turbid issue—and by the extremism it generates. How can someone who cares so much about skiing, which is nothing more than sliding on snow, be so antagonistic toward snowboarding, which also is nothing more than sliding on snow?

One problem I have in sorting this out is figuring out how much of the conflict is over snowboarding—and how much is over snowboarders. Snowboarders do come in all shapes, sizes, ages, sexes, and tax brackets, but the most visible ones (and the vast majority) are adolescent males. Dudes. My days of dudedom aren’t that far past—microns of testosterone lurk in the crannies still—and I remember how much pleasure I took from being loud, obnoxious, and rebellious. It’s no different for a 15-year-old dude today; and I think these guys intimidate a lot of skiers who might otherwise be attracted to snowboarding. (I also have a feeling there are an equal number of loud, obnoxious dudes skiing, but nobody notices because they’re “just skiers.”)

But attacking snowboarding because it attracts a bunch of loud teenagers is like attacking sailing because it’s done by uptight, rich white people. Maybe it is, but should you judge an entire sport on one flimsy stereotype? No. You should judge it on its merits.

Arguments I’ve heard against snowboarding are that it doesn’t require much skill (it does, but even if it didn’t, so what?), that it chews up the snow (no more than body-packing flailers on skis), that its participants are often out of control (well, it’s a young sport, so snowboarders on average are at a lower level than skiers, but it also has a lot more upper-body movement than skiing, which make it appear less controlled). Ultimately, though, only one thing is important in the argument for or against snowboarding: Is it fun? Anyone who’s approached snowboarding with the same open-mindedness with which they originally approached skiing will answer, unequivocally, yes. Snowboarding is as fun, as challenging, and as exciting as skiing. But it’s different.

What’s so bad about that?

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 19.7, March 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

Some years, when the distance between my last turn and my next turn seemed unbearable, I would get my skis out and, when no one was looking, step into the bindings. I’d practice my tuck, or roll the ski over on edge in the carpet, or even lean ever so coolly on my poles.

I’m not the only one who’s done things in August most people consider aberrant. Brent Diamond, the publisher of Powder, recently had an overwhelming bout of enthusiasm in which he “skied” around his living room—not just with boots and poles, but with all his ski clothes on, too. Dave Moe, a.k.a. Captain Powder, regularly can be heard bouncing down the office steps on telemark skis. And when I was in college, I had a friend who was practicing his gelände technique in his bedroom. Both heels released, and he broke his nose and blackened both eyes when his face slammed into the floor.

Stupid? By degrees. Silly? Yes. Necessary? Absolutely. August is a critical time for skiers, and whatever means are required for renewal are justified.

I used to hate August, but over the years my feelings have mellowed. I realize now that August is as necessary to skiing as January. This is so because August is as far from January as you can get, in emotion and attitude, anyway, if not in calendar months. The days of August are long and sunny. The nights are hot and calm. There is none of the September chill that brings the hint of skiing, none of the autumn storms that bring the scent of snow. There is nothing but August.

With distance comes desire. The further you get from something, the more you want it and the more you dream about it. You look for signs that make your longing sweeter. That first issue of Powder, coming out of the blue, was always my catalyst. It was a landmark, the first signal that winter would come again. In the days that followed its arrival, I would find myself slipping into daydreams at the oddest times, dreams that had me billowing through powder in Taos or Telluride, or adventuring in Alaska or Antarctica. After a week or so I’d be compelled to visit Ski Chalet, the nearest “real” ski shop, where I’d spent an hour or two looking at the new gear and swapping lies with fellow skiers. I’d drive home flush with excitement, aching to ski.

A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about skiing. It’s my job. Because of this, summer doesn’t seem quite so grim anymore: Winter’s always here, in the form of ski photos or a new manuscript or a postcard from the Southern Hemisphere. The distance isn’t quite so acute.

But August is still August, and each year at this time I find myself shedding some of the attitudes and perspectives that I’ve gotten from being the editor of a ski magazine. I’m not sure whether it’s because August is so damn hot or because I’ve become conditioned to think this way in the weeks before Labor Day. Whatever the reason these days I look at the photos on the light table not as cover possibilities, but simply as really cool powder explosions. I read the stories not for grammar and structure, but for words that inspire me to ski. I become a fan of skiing—just a fan of skiing.

I don’t know what I’m going to do this August. I might burn some skis and make a sacrifice to the snow gods, or I might scrape all the travel wax off my skis and put on a new coat. Or maybe I’ll do the same as you: grab the first new copy of Powder I can get my hands on and curl up on the sofa and start flipping through the pages. And then, maybe, I’ll pull my ski boots out of the closet.

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 20.1, September 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

Six or seven years ago, Benedict was one of Powder’s best photographers. But, in a fit of logic that has yet to be explained, he abandoned still photography for the relative glory and riches of shooting movies, most visibly with Greg Stump. (Indeed, Benedict’s quirky and evocative vision was a huge factor in the success of the early Stump films.) He only shot three days for Stump’s last film, “Dr. Strange Glove,” and none for the current one, “Groove Requiem,” and I hadn’t really seen his recent work.

While he was here, I asked him why he went to Taos. After all, with no sponsors and n planned outlet for the footage, it didn’t seem like he had much chance to earn back whatever money he spent shooting.

“Halfway through last winter,” he said, “I realized I didn’t have any plans to ski and I figured, what the heck, I’ll call my buddies and we’ll go shoot. I missed them and the thrill of hanging over the side of steep places, and I couldn’t let the winter pass without playing in the snow.”

What? Just shoot skiing? People don’t do that anymore. Do they?

Benedict’s story brings to mind some of the issues swirling around skiing these days, particularly issues of environmentalism. As you’ll read in the article, “Does Colorado Need Another Ski Area?” by Glenn Randall, there are three proposed ski areas in Colorado that could become reality in the next few years. To build or not is a thorny question. Certainly, we’d love more places to ski, yet the impact on the environment would be severe.

Every quad chairlift, every snow-making gun, every grooming machine hurts the world in some way. Two of my favorite things—resort skiing and magazine publishing—take a large toll on the earth. The reality is that everything we do—from flushing a toilet to building a ski resort—has an impact. Everything has its cost. The challenge is to move forward with that understanding and make intelligent, well-planned decisions for the future.

What does Benedict have to do with questions about the environment? Well, I think it all comes down to being true to your values. Are you doing what you’re doing because you believe it’s a good thing or are you doing it because you’re going to make money? In Benedict’s case, it was clearly because he loves to make movies. But what about the developers of these proposed resorts? Are they motivated by their love of skiing or their love of profit?

I am not anti-development. I am not “anti” sponsored movies. Nor am I against profit. But what I absolutely hate is the loss of vision and erosion of spirit that sometimes comes with the quest for money. I believe that if you make something good and true that people want, you will profit. That, I think, is what Benedict is doing, and that, I hope, is what these developers are doing.

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 20.2, October 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.

For a while last winter, it seemed as if the whole world was down on helicopter skiing. First, there was that heli-skiing story in SI in which the writer complained about, among other things, snow that was too deep, trees that were too thick, and blizzards that were too, well, blizzardy. Then, after an avalanche that killed nine people at Canadian Mountain Holidays’ Bugaboo Lodge, there were rumblings in B.C. to clamp restrictions on heli-operators. In a follow-up story on the tragedy, Sports Illustrated went to far as to urge that “Canadian authorities take a closer look at heli-skiing” and that standard liability waivers be disallowed, because heli-operators “would then have a strong incentive to emphasize safety.” Excuse me? You mean they don’t now?

What are we, Jell-o? Are we so helpless, hopeless, and spineless that we need to be looked after like newborns? Are we so unconcerned with our own safety that we need some surrogate mom to say, “Sorry, boys and girls, but that helicopter skiing’s just a tad dangerous for you. Why don’t you stay inside and play Battleship?

The fact is that helicopter skiing—indeed, skiing in general—takes place in the mountains. Mountains—they’re pretty wild places, remember? So wild that several hundred years ago travelers through the Alps would blindfold themselves to ward off the insanity that might come from gazing upon the gruesome magnitude around them. They are the home to uncountable dangers and endless ways to die, from crevasses to rockfalls to avalanches.

But, if you approach them carefully, they are also home to some of the most sublime moments in life. Only in the mountains will you experience the ethereal sensation of floating and flying at great speeds through the softest medium on earth. Only in the mountains will you feel the cold kiss of powder skiing. Only in the mountains will you see snow ghosts like the ones on this month’s cover, or sun dogs that burn in dancing ice crystals, or giant pyramid-shaped shadows cast by peaks against the clouds.

So, it’s an equation. On one side is risk, on the other, fun. The yin and yang of this should come as a surprise to no one, least of all to someone who loves powder skiing. The question is, is it worth it?

I think it is. I think the risks, while serious and potentially deadly, are no higher than those you face driving on a crowded freeway or walking the streets of Manhattan at night. Riding a bicycle around town without a helmet is, to my mind, infinitely more dangerous than helicopter skiing, yet how many people who never consider heli-skiing do that without a second thought?

Much of the fear of helicopter skiing comes from ignorance of the backcountry. Avalanches, tree wells, creekbeds, cornices, cliffs…all of these dangers can be minimized or eliminated by paying attention. The key is to listen to the guide, who knows more about mountain rhythms than you could ever hope to…and who has just as much incentive as you do to be alive at the bottom of the run. Be humble, and do what he or she says. Keep your eyes open. Listen to the mountains, too. Think about where you are and what can hurt you and what you can do to avoid being hurt.

If you do that, you will have some of the most beautiful experiences of your life. The peaks and ridges and valleys you visit and the turns you make will glow in your memory long after the fears are forgotten. Can you ask anything more of life?

First published in Powder Magazine, issue 20.3, November 1991. Copyright Steve Casimiro 2001. All rights reserved.