This story update is part of the 国产吃瓜黑料 Classics, a series highlighting the best writing we鈥檝e ever published, along with author interviews and other exclusive bonus materials. Read 鈥淲e鈥檙e Here. You Just Don鈥檛 See Us,鈥� by Latria Graham here.

OUTSIDE: Writing about the dynamics of race, class, and social justice for an outdoor magazine seems like a tough assignment. How did you find the balance?
GRAHAM: This story addresses a mistaken idea many people have鈥攖hat Black people don鈥檛 participate in the outdoors. I knew I could present a nuanced perspective based on my lived experience. I grew up in the outdoors. My father was a farmer; I worked at his farm stand. And I鈥檓 a hiker, snowshoer, backpacker, cyclist, and more. The data is there. Black people do things in the outdoors. It鈥檚 just that on the East Coast and in the South, where the majority of Black Americans live, there are fewer parks than in the West. I wanted people to know that. I refuse to live without sharing knowledge that I know could make someone鈥檚 life better.

You say you鈥檝e been a 鈥渄isciple of landscapes鈥� for as long as you can remember. Disciple really stands out for me. Why did you choose that word?
I think of nature as my life鈥檚 church. Nature has a lot to teach us, and it shapes my worldview. Everything in nature is connected. Humans love to forget it, but we鈥檙e part of that connection. A disciple is one who is studying, constantly learning. I鈥檝e studied the outdoors for a long time, and even though the word has been claimed by Evangelical Christians, who are mostly Republicans, I wanted to take it back. As someone who has dealt with floods, fires, and tornadoes鈥攁ll of which display the power and sheer magnitude of nature鈥擨 know there鈥檚 a higher power. It鈥檚 my teacher.

Your descriptions of your childhood home and the characters in it evoke joy for you. In a relatively dark essay, how did it feel to recall those happy things?
鈥淲e鈥檙e Here鈥� is about showing how my family has been a part of the outdoors for a long time. I wrote some of those passages as a way to celebrate people who aren鈥檛 with us anymore. They can no longer engage with this space鈥攊t鈥檚 a reliquary for them. But I鈥檓 going to take this little memory and make it real by putting it in the pages of a magazine. And the essay feels even more powerful to me now because, since I wrote it, I鈥檝e lost the thing that brought me outside in the first place: my father鈥檚 farm. I had to auction it off.

I get very sad thinking about that. The farm rooted you to the land.
Yeah. But for a moment in time, I was able to catch this comet in my hands. In the essay, I get to tell you what living and growing up there felt like. And I get to put the people from my life, like my grandma and my aunt, in the story. Their pictures, too. My grandmother had never seen a picture of herself in a magazine, and she died not long after the piece was published.

At one point, you write about your family being 鈥渟haped by the soil,鈥� which you say is 鈥渞ed from the violence of southern history.鈥� Is it hard to find beauty in such a horrifying past?
I grew up in a region where a person can be killed for being the wrong color. That鈥檚 been the case since 1526, the year Spanish explorers brought the first enslaved people to a colony on the Atlantic coast. But the landscape where those things happened is beautiful and fertile. I鈥檓 talking aesthetics, music, food. It all goes back to that dirt, and being able to sustain life in a temperate climate. The South will never be just one thing, and as a writer I鈥檓 determined to hold both parts鈥攖his entropy鈥攊n my hands.

What was it like to write this for 国产吃瓜黑料? Was there a part of you that thought these people will never get it?
I鈥檝e been doing this explanatory exploration of both social and geographical policy my whole life. For instance, in 2015, when police in North Charleston, South Carolina, killed Walter Scott鈥攁 Black man with a traumatic brain injury鈥攏o one in my family had ever protested before. I did, and I wrote about it as a way to try and figure out the world I鈥檓 in and how I fit. It was like that with 国产吃瓜黑料. I wanted readers to have a full, accurate picture of what鈥檚 going on with Black people and the outdoors. And for anybody who picked up the magazine and invested the time trying to puzzle through this with me, I have total regard.

Was it well received? Do you think people understood it?
Yeah. But I also got death threats. Apparently, some people weren鈥檛 able to just take the magazine and throw it in the trash鈥攖hey had to threaten me. But I鈥檓 willing to die standing by my truth, because I don鈥檛 think I鈥檓 doing anything wrong talking about these things.

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In April, Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, a hunting education and advocacy organization, circulated a press release offering a $500 reward 鈥渇or reports or information leading to a conviction of those responsible for illegal trail construction on public lands.鈥� In other words, the national nonprofit placed what amounted to a bounty on mountain bikers building illegal trails.

The Colorado chapter of BHA sent the press release directly to two publications: Boulder鈥檚 Daily Camera newspaper and the Mountain Ear, which services Nederland, a town 18 miles up Boulder Canyon. The bounty technically applies to the entire state of Colorado, but the memo indicated that it was targeted at trailbuilders in the national forests around Boulder and Nederland.

Both towns are hubs for outdoor recreation. The Roosevelt and Arapaho national forests, which comprise 160,000 acres of public land, offer ample hiking, skiing, hunting, and fishing. They are the country鈥檚 third-most visited forests, with an estimated 7.5 million annual users. Nederland in particular is popular with mountain bikers: the parking lot for the West Magnolia trail system, a prominent听network of singletrack, overflows with cars every weekend from late spring to mid-fall, and the nearby Front Range trails see ample bike traffic as well.

But in the vicinity, like just about anywhere with a mountain bike scene, locals have built secret, illegal trails. These see far less traffic than the sanctioned trails. I spoke to a local resident who builds illegal trails, who wished to remain anonymous for this story. He told me he enjoys the creativity, solo time in nature, and challenge that comes from cutting the clandestine paths.

There鈥檚 a long history of social trail-building in the Nederland area, says Josh Harrod, president of the all-volunteer mountain-bike-focused Nederland Area Trails Organization (NATO). 鈥淚 would say 90 percent-plus of the trails we use up here started as social trails鈥攖he elk and deer ran through, then hikers followed, then bikers followed suit,鈥� he says. 鈥淪ocial trail construction is kind of the fabric of the local trail community. NATO doesn鈥檛 sanction it, but I don鈥檛 think it鈥檚 ever going to stop.鈥�

It was these trails that interested BHA. The read, 鈥淔or years we鈥檝e been hearing from public lands agency staff and our members that illegal trail building is rampant in many areas of the state and proliferating. Elk herds and other wildlife are suffering as a result. [The $500 reward for turning illegal trailbuilders in] is one small step we can take to try and help moderate and hopefully deter additional illegal trail construction activity.鈥�

Local mountain bikers were angry. 鈥淭hose guys are out there walking around with guns. When they put a bounty out, it鈥檚 a bad look,鈥� says the trail-builder I spoke with.

Bikers felt the reaction was overblown. The trail-builder I spoke with describes his renegade trails as harmless labors of love that only he and a few friends know about鈥攃ould they really be getting in the way of wildlife? And why was one backcountry user group launching what felt like an offensive towards another?

The trails in the Nederland area are, like most trails across the mountain West, more crowded than ever. In their press release, BHA cited a quote from Gary Moore, executive director of the Colorado Mountain Bike Association, saying that bikers’ options are limited in the state. And popular renegade trails do occasionally get retroactively sanctioned by the Forest Service, according to multiple mountain bike groups.

Sanctioning new trail construction is a complicated process that can take decades, says Meara McQuain, executive director of the Headwaters Trails Alliance in Grand County, Colorado. If the HTA wants to build a new trail on federal land, it takes its idea to the relevant governing land agency. If the agency is interested, they鈥檒l do a public survey to determine engagement. Then, the trail goes through a process mandated by the National Environmental Policies Act to evaluate its potential impact, with scientists and researchers鈥攊ncluding archaeologists, hydrologists, botanists, and wildlife biologists鈥攚eighing in. The study findings are released for public comment, and if anyone protests, the project goes into a public objection period. The federal agency makes modifications, if necessary, and the leadership of the land management agency makes the final decision. All of this can take anywhere from three to 15 years, says McQuain. (The process looks different for state and private land.)

Research shows that trails can impact wildlife in dramatic ways. In the 1980s, a Colorado State University biologist named Bill Alldredge started near Vail, as ski resorts and trail systems started expanding. He and his team radio-collared female elk with new calves and then had humans hike through their preferred grounds until the cows showed signs of disturbance like standing up or walking away. Of the elk he studied, about 30 percent of their calves died when their mothers were disturbed by humans鈥攁nd when the disturbances stopped, the population recovered.

A 2016 of wildlife studies spanning four decades found that human traffic on trails forces animals to flee, limiting their feeding time and forcing them to expend valuable energy. And a out of Steamboat Springs, Colorado, from earlier this year found that mountain biking ranked second only to ATV use in disturbing elk populations in a 120,000-acre parcel of land east of town.

Whether all illegally built trails negatively impact wildlife, we don鈥檛 know. But Kriss Hess, the BHA member who sent the press release to Boulder and Nederland papers, argues that while many of these trails might only see a little traffic in their early years, it鈥檚 not uncommon for them to eventually wind up on mapping apps and grow in popularity, impacting wildlife years down the line.

鈥淲e鈥檙e not trying to be aggressive with this, but we are extremely concerned about the we鈥檙e seeing across the state in elk and mule deer and other populations,鈥� says Brien Webster, BHA鈥檚 program manager and Colorado and Wyoming coordinator. 鈥淥ur wildlife and land management agencies are maxed when it comes to capacity, so it鈥檚 extremely difficult for them to post up and stop riders from accessing an illegal trail,鈥� says Webster. They鈥檙e hoping the bounty might help the agencies manage the issue.

BHA also hopes to create and distribute maps and other educational materials that might help different user groups better understand how elk see and use a landscape. In August, they released a 15-page 鈥溾�� with maps showing critical wildlife habitat and national conservation areas with social trails built through them. BHA is also considering placing educational signage at existing trailheads in areas with high rider concentration where illegal trailbuilding has occurred.

But the Boulder Ranger District has no formal or informal agreement with BHA, and it would be illegal for BHA to do any kind of trail maintenance, add signage, or install cameras, according to Reid Armstrong, public affairs specialist for the Arapaho and Roosevelt National Forests. Armstrong also pointed out that several recent bills have increased the Boulder Ranger District鈥檚 funding and that they are focusing their efforts where they feel they are most urgently needed, specifically on infrastructure projects and wildfire recovery and mitigation.

And Wendy Sweet, executive director of the Boulder Mountainbike Alliance, said that publishing maps of illegal trails may have the opposite of the desired effect. 鈥淚f the mountain bike community sees this memo, the first thing they will do is want to check [those trails] out,鈥� she says. Sweet had multiple meetings with BHA members prior to the publishing of this memo to talk about how all of the various stakeholders in Boulder County could work together to create trails safe for wildlife, and felt the release was in bad faith. Plenty of other factors place strain on wildlife, like development in the wilderness-urban interface, increasing backcountry use across all user groups, wildfire, and a changing climate.

Since releasing the bounty, Webster says, nobody has been turned in. Instead, 鈥淏HA has had some really good conversations with folks within the mountain bike community who are trying to address this in a meaningful way,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t has helped us think about our objective, and to focus more on education than the bounty aspect.鈥�

Aaron Kindle, director of sporting advocacy at the National Wildlife Federation, thinks BHA isn鈥檛 being heavy-handed enough. 鈥淲hat happens when someone says, 鈥楳y actions don鈥檛 count in that spot; I鈥檒l do what I want.鈥� What if other folks started seeing those guys never getting punished?鈥� he says. 鈥淭he beauty of having public lands is that we鈥檙e all responsible for taking care of these landscapes.鈥�

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When people ask me if I like using my , I tell them, 鈥淵es, but it has strained my friendships.鈥�

That鈥檚 not a lie. Imagine inviting me to go skiing, and as you鈥檙e confiding something important to me on the chairlift鈥攁bout your affair, say, or how obsessed you are with your new teardrop trailer鈥擨 keep responding distractedly, 鈥淵eah? Oh yeah?鈥� while fiddling with something in my pocket. Or worse, we get to the top of a run, and just as we鈥檙e about to do the one thing that makes听your life worth living, I yell, 鈥淲ait one sec! I need to calibrate my boots!鈥�

Fumbling for my phone, I open my Carv app and go to 鈥淐alibrate.鈥� I click on an image of my right or left boot sole, then begin teetering precariously on one foot while lifting the other and waving it from side to side. When Carv tells me I鈥檓 calibrated (meaning鈥� I鈥檓 not sure what), I repeat the process on leg two. Only then am I ready to drop into whatever run we鈥檙e about to ski鈥攖hat perfect corduroy, beckoning us to tear downhill at 40 miles an hour; or 1,200 feet of bumps, softened by the early-afternoon sun; or first tracks through six inches of untouched powder, which we showed up 90 minutes early for. But first I need to hit the record button, so that Carv can collect data on my skiing.

Exasperated, you take off before I鈥檓 finished. That鈥檚 OK, because like Samantha did for Theodore Twombly in the AI rom-com Her, Alex, my Carv girlfriend, croons lovingly. 鈥淎re you ready to ski, Tracy? Let鈥檚 do this,鈥� she says. As this scenario repeats itself throughout the course of our ski day, I become more and more annoying. But I won鈥檛 apologize, because Carv is improving my skiing.

I鈥檝e believed myself to be a shredder since I was a 12-year-old riding the ski bus sans parents to 500-acre Pomerelle Mountain in southern Idaho. But aside from one season, when I trained a few times with a masters race coach for , I鈥檝e pretty much improved my skills through feel, which isn鈥檛 ideal. (Well, that plus chasing around my husband, a former ski racer and cat-ski guide, and asking听him to teach me how to ski steeps without overturning or to watch me carve and critique me.)

That鈥檚 why I latched on to Carv when the brand鈥檚 PR rep sent me a unit this past winter. Setting it up was easy: all I had to do was insert the pair of footbeds it came with into my alpine boot shells and attach battery packs the size of old-school flip phones to my power straps. Sensors in the footbeds then talked to the app on my iPhone; as I pressured my skis through each turn, the app picked up on my various deficiencies. (The device itself is $149, and the app costs $199 a year.)

Right off the bat, it humbled me. When I ski groomers, I feel like I鈥檓 going a least 50 miles an hour. Carv, however, clocked me at just 37.5. I also thought I had a pretty solid Ski IQ (Carv鈥檚 lingo for how good you are). But early on, I was consistently ranking in the high eighties, compared with the highest score recorded, 165. According to the app, my score put me in the Green Guru level. This was so disconcerting that I begged my favorite ski partner, Stephanie鈥攁 bona fide ripper who raced on the same high school team as accomplished big-mountain freerider Chris Davenport鈥攖o tell me how bad I was, no stroking my ego.

鈥淭racy! You鈥檙e a beautiful skier! Incredibly smooth,鈥� she said. 鈥淵ou may jump up a bit side to side and not dig your edges in enough, but you鈥檙e one of the best women I ski with!鈥� Then, because I needed more assurance that I鈥檓 not dog breath on PTEX, I had her try out my system鈥攎y boots, my skis, and my Carv app on my phone.

Shockingly, Stephanie ranked in the Green Guru category for her first few runs, too. But then she started concentrating on carving and jumped to Carv Cadet (level three of 20).听With her every improvement, my self-confidence dipped lower. Why was I skiing so poorly (according to Alex), when I felt like a soaring bald eagle chasing Steph down the slopes? I鈥檓 a perfectionist, so a few days later I went out again with the single goal of scoring above 88.

Carv offers all kinds of tips on how to improve your skiing. The two it gave me consistently were to initiate my turns earlier and to ski with my legs parallel. 鈥淭ake the energy from the old, turn to the new,鈥� it advised. And 鈥渋magine you are skiing on railway tracks.鈥�

I started playing with these, dialing way back on my run choice鈥攆rom blacks to a green. Then I intentionally incorporated another of Carv鈥檚 lessons: Alex kept telling me I needed to improve my 鈥渆dge similarity,鈥� so I clicked the 鈥淪how Me How鈥� button on my phone and read about it.

I learned that edge similarity is key to arcing, 鈥渂ecause it allows your two skis to work together to provide better balance, instead of fighting each other.鈥澨�The app went on to explain: 鈥淔or carving turns, a high edge similarity score will give you greater freedom of movement to angulate further and reach higher edge angles.鈥� A common problem many skiers have is that they try to edge just by angulating at the hip (something I鈥檝e been taught to do throughout the years). But the edge-similarity video showed me that rolling your inside knee toward the hill improves your grip on the snow and helps you rebound from turn to turn.听

As soon as I started doing this, my flow improved, thanks to more rounded turns and more connection to the snow. My knees also pointed headlight-style down the slope, and I could feel myself initiating earlier. Lo and behold, when Stephanie and I got back on the lift and I checked my Ski IQ, I鈥檇 leapt up two levels, to a Carv Cadet with a score of 115.

Alex adjusted her coaching to my new expertise and gave me some new tips to incorporate. 鈥淓xperiment with faster speeds to topple your legs faster and further at the start of each new turn,鈥� she said. (鈥淭oppling鈥� was a new term for me, too. I watched a video about it on the app. It means moving your center of gravity to initiate edging.) I did a few more green runs and kept my score above 115. Then I took what I鈥檇 learned to a blue run and then black run.听On each, my score dropped back down into the mid-nineties. My clear struggle is carving when I鈥檓 flying downhill. I can still tackle black groomers and double-black trees; I just can鈥檛 do it as well when I鈥檓 hauling.

But it鈥檚 also important to remember that carving isn鈥檛 the point in that kind of terrain, where jump turning, floating, and straight lining are much more helpful. What鈥檚 more, on some of the best skis out there鈥攍ike Atomic鈥檚 Bent Chetler鈥攜ou wouldn鈥檛 want to carve. Ski with a jibby style? You鈥檇 suck, according to Carv. Not a fan of turning? Don鈥檛 bother with the app. The point of Carv is to teach you to turn. That鈥檚 best done on groomers. But there鈥檚 so much more to skiing than what鈥檚 happening with your boots and skis, like mindset, aggressiveness, and overall flow. So while the app does drill down on the fundamentals of turning, it鈥檚 probably not for skiers who want to dive into 45-degree chutes, float through powder-filled glades, or etch down cliff faces.

Ultimately, Stephanie and I don鈥檛 really care if we carve like cadets when freeskiing together. She texted me after her test and said as much: 鈥淗aving an app or devices on you like this takes away from the Zen of skiing, when you鈥檙e in the moment and not thinking about how well you did or how you can improve. You鈥檙e just going and feeling. That鈥檚 what I love about skiing.鈥澨�

I always want to improve myself鈥攊t鈥檚 a gift and a curse. And I know there鈥檚 a lot I can fix about my skiing. Carv definitely helped me identify this and showed me how to get better. Sometimes, when my kid is at ski team and I鈥檓 alone for the day, I don鈥檛 mind the opportunity to work on technique. But I also love just going out and ripping around with my expert friends. During those times, I don鈥檛 want to be thinking about improvement, but about how great skiing feels.听

So my final assessment of Carv is this: it鈥檚 great for beginners just learning to ski (国产吃瓜黑料 had someone test it for just that purpose), for intermediates wanting to level up or learn to carve as opposed to slide, and for perfection-obsessed experts. Personally, I鈥檒l keep using it on days when I鈥檓 skiing alone and hankering to improve.

But when it鈥檚 time to go out and fly through the clouds, I鈥檒l ditch Alex for freedom. Chances are, thanks to Carv, I鈥檒l get that鈥攚ith better technique.听

The post I鈥檓 an Expert Skier. I Took Lessons from an App. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

My ten-year-old daughter, Hollis, was standing on the ridge above the double-black-diamond East Face at Colorado鈥檚 Steamboat Resort, muttering to me through clenched teeth that she wasn鈥檛 going to ski it. Hollis can ski that kind of terrain; the cliff- and rock-riddled slope wasn鈥檛 the problem. What was freaking her out was the pack of 12-and-under boys from the local junior freeskiing program, who themselves had just skied the face and were circled up with their coaches at the bottom of the run, talking fluidity, line selection, and how much air they planned to catch at the junior regional freeride competition happening in Steamboat the next day.

The funny thing was, not one of them was watching Hollis. But I understood the fear that froze her and made her feel听unable to start her first turn down the run. Like her, I had once been a little girl in the throes of prepuberty who both felt the drive to push herself athletically but also internalize all the bullshit that came with growing up female in America.

One of the reasons my husband and I had signed her up for the freeride development team, Devo, back at our home mountain, Eldora, was because we鈥檇 recently seen her morph from a girl who cared little about what others thought into one who often returned home from school in tears and falling apart. It seems that fifth grade might be the year girls learn the power of bullying each other鈥攁nd Hollis had been on the receiving end. (I鈥檒l also note that Hollis has done her fair share of playing favorites and leaving other girls out.) When I later discovered, through other parents, that Hollis had been crying at school but not telling me, I panicked.

I know from raising two other kids that only bad things can come from them withholding such important information. So in hopes of building Hollis up, my husband and I enrolled her in Devo, thinking it would be a good antidote to her suffering. She鈥檚 been skiing since she was a toddler, and the sport is a huge part of our family鈥檚 identity. As my husband and I both know, ripping around on snow is one of the best ways to make lasting friendships. When she joined the team in December, she immediately showed signs of feeling better. She鈥檇 get up without complaining on mornings before practice, when we鈥檇 have to hit the road to Eldora by 6:30 A.M. to avoid the weekend crush of traffic. Things continued to improve, and then she got a jolt of inspiration.

Two months after she started training with the team, we sat down to watch some of the women鈥檚 events at the Winter Olympics. We snacked on salt-and-vinegar chips as her eyes locked onto the strands of face-framing hair each woman pulled to the front of their helmet. Affectionately known as 鈥溾�� (or 鈥渂eauty strands,鈥� as snowboarder Chloe Kim opts to call them), they ensure the world knows that it鈥檚 a woman throwing these unfathomably huge, technical tricks. Hollis found her brush and had me braid her hair while she carefully held two front pieces apart. Now they always hang outside of her helmet (and dip in her ski-break French-fry ketchup鈥攖hanks, ladies.)

Then there was their skiing and riding. Kim made history by winning her second Olympic gold medal in the halfpipe with her twisting cab 900 melon grab (an insanely difficult spin, with a grab and 2.5 rotations) and soaring a double cork 1080 (three 360鈥檚). And Chinese-American skier Eileen Gu made history, too, when she became the first athlete to win three medals in three different freestyle-skiing disciplines at a single Games, with tricks like her double 1620 (four and a half full rotations and two off-axis flips), which she had never performed outside of practice (and which French skier Tess LeDeux first executed at the X Games in January, becoming the first woman ever to land one in competition).

This time, thanks for real, ladies: Hollis is now obsessed with landing a 360 and executing sporty hand drags, both of which keep her mind off things like painful school fights or stealing my iPhone to watch strangers apply makeup.

But more importantly, as we sat on the couch watching the Games over multiple nights, with Hollis snuggled into my side and her bearded dragon, Audrey, on her lap, she got to see what real female support and camaraderie look like. She stood up and cheered when silver and bronze snowboard medalists Julia Marino, from the U.S., and Tess Coady, from Australia, sprinted to hug New Zealand鈥檚 Zoi Sadowski-Synnott after she won slopestyle, also making history as the first-ever Kiwi to win gold at a Winter Olympics. When all of Sadowski-Synnott鈥檚 competitors piled on, Hollis spontaneously hugged me (careful not to crush Audrey). And when LeDeux crumpled to the ground in tears after losing gold to Gu in the big-air competition, Hollis cried, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 not fair!鈥� But Gu showed Hollis how to be the ultimate good sportsperson. She went to LeDeux and tried to console her, kneeling beside her and rubbing her back.

Through it all, a little girl who鈥檇 been struggling to hold her center during her first real experiences with bullying saw women at the highest level of competition supporting and championing themselves first鈥攂ecause that鈥檚 what it takes to be an Olympian鈥攂ut also respecting, holding space, and caring for their competitors, regardless of who won or lost.

It took me back to Hollis and her first freeride competition.

At the bottom of her scouting run, she insisted she was too scared to compete. My intention all along was to present her with the option, not force her to do it, and I told her as much. At bedtime that night, she seemed iffy. But the following morning, she got up, dressed herself, ate breakfast, and went with her team to the venue. When her name was called, she skied along the ridge, dropped in, and linked a few turns before crashing. It took forever for her to dig herself out of the snow, recenter, and keep skiing. But when she got to the end of her run, everyone cheered for her. You could see that camaraderie going a long way in a little girl trying her best to navigate tweendom with compassion and composure.

The post Why I Want My Daughter to Ski Like a Girl听 appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

There鈥檚 a lot of math that goes into hurtling down an icy, 40-degree face. If you鈥檙e racing on the pro circuit, your coach is constantly calculating things like g-force, ski angle, body angle, and turn shape. That same feedback would also help average skiers who just want to smooth their turns or make it down a black-diamond run, but until recently, it鈥檚 been hard to come by without a World Cup coach or spendy private lesson. Now, a handful of companies are developing tools to bring expert-level ski coaching to your smartphone.

Learn to Carve from a Computer

A month ago, I got my hands on the Carv system to see how well this ballyhooed app works. Retailing for $149 plus a subscription of $199 per year, the tool consists of boot-shaped inserts that fit between your shell and inner boot and link to a tracking unit that clips to your booster strap by a small cable. The tracker unit interfaces with an app that provides computerized feedback on your technique and offers suggestions on how you can improve鈥攅ither after you ski or while you鈥檙e skiing.

After an easy, 20-minute setup that included calibrating the boot to the tracking unit, I was ready to Carv my brains out. At the top of the lift, I hit 鈥淩ecord鈥� on the app, and for the duration of my run Carv tracked my overall 鈥渟ki IQ,鈥� which was based on things like how well I edged, how round my turns were, and how consistently I initiated a turn. Then, back on the lift, I could watch a video tutorial that focused on a problem area, based on my scores (from 0 to 100 percent). Not only was the game of constant improvement fun, but I also found that I noticeably sharpened my skiing skills.

Others clearly think so, too. Demand is currently outpacing supply, says Carv鈥檚 CEO Jamie Grant. 鈥淲e鈥檝e sold out every season since launch [via Kickstarter in 2016].鈥� So far, 20,000 Carv members have skied over 621,000 miles, measuring over 50 million turns.

For those who鈥檇 prefer a flesh-and-blood coach over Carv鈥檚 velvety-voiced AI, there鈥檚 Givego, created by Salt Lake City-based entrepreneur Willie Ford in 2020. It works by connecting users to certified sports coaches, instructors, and professional athletes. When skiers send Givego a video of themselves doing whatever skill they鈥檇 like to improve (carving trenches, shredding steeps, floating through trees), the coaches provide personalized feedback. (Givego is free to download. Experts set their own price for consultation; the average is $20 for an hour.) 鈥淚 started skiing last season after moving to a mountain town from Alabama,鈥� said user Kyle Rusak, who found it challenging to maintain confidence at higher speeds and used the app to connect with Jeb Boyd, one of the best pro instructors in the country. 鈥淚 was amazed at how helpful his advice was. After a couple of short, asynchronous sessions, my skiing improved substantially.鈥�

And then there鈥檚 Skeo, developed by a Swiss tech company and two-time World Cup champion downhiller Bode Miller. Designed for professionals (racers, coaches, and instructors), it鈥檚 also great for recreational skiers. The system tracks data on a skier鈥檚 stamina, turn quality, ski-to-snow engagement, style, and body position with a set of sensors that affix to the user鈥檚 skis and chest. The retail price is $449 for sensors, mounting brackets, a chest sling, and a charging pad. Similar to Carv, the analytics land on your smartphone.

Skis That Think

For the past few years, brands have been working to put coaching tech directly into the skis. In 2018, Rossignol joined forces with a company called Piq to embed motion sensors that tracked important metrics, including speed, turning angles, transitions, and the g-force of each turn, into the materials of a ski. An integrated computer analyzed skiers鈥� technique and sent data to their smartphones so they could study themselves later. But then Piq went out of business, and 鈥渢he app worked for a while, then started crashing,鈥� said Alpine Category Manager Jake Stevens. 鈥淪o we pulled the plug.鈥�

But ski designers aren鈥檛 giving up. Since 2018, Elan has been working on a smart-ski prototype equipped with sensors that give skiers real-time readouts on things like body balance position, edge activation, ski flex, dynamics, and turn phases. When finalized, the setup will allow audio guided coaching on snow. Global brand director Melanja Koro拧ec said Elan is the only ski company with the patents for the tech it鈥檚 creating, and that it鈥檚 still tweaking the sensors to make sure the ski will fly without hiccups when it debuts. Come launch (鈥渟oon,鈥� but the exact date is TBD), the company expects the skis to take tech-assisted coaching well beyond what鈥檚 on the market. Competitors 鈥渙ffer mostly gadgets that may measure movements of the skier and their position as an add-on technical solution,鈥� Koro拧ec said. 鈥淸But] they are not using readings directly from the skis.鈥�

From the Boots Up

In 2015, Atomic started working on the industry鈥檚 first 鈥渟mart ski boot鈥� with biomechanics experts from Salzburg University. The goal: to create a boot that can help skiers become more aware of their balance and where they can apply more pressure for better performance. The result, the Hawx Ultra Connected, talks to Atomic鈥檚 free Connected app, which then relays information to the skier. 鈥淭his product is great for the target consumer because you can dissect your skiing down to each individual turn and compare exactly how you ski versus the best in the business鈥攍ike 鈥榖enchmark鈥� athlete Daron Rahlves, who won World Championship gold in the Super G in 2001,鈥� said Atomic鈥檚 head of boot development in Austria, Jason Roe. 鈥淵our run is also boiled down to an overall carving score that is a direct reflection of how well you ski. It鈥檚 quite addictive to keep your score at the level you want it to be.鈥� Expect to see the Connected in use at various Canadian ski schools this January, and it should be available in the U.S. soon after.

Looking to the future, Elan believes there will be increasing demand for technology that puts skiers鈥� progress in their own hands. 鈥淲e live in a data-centric world, and people are already constantly learning, evolving, and honing in on their skills from the feedback provided by technology,鈥� Koro拧ec said. 鈥淧roducts like smart skis will provide real-time feedback. This allows skiers to learn at an accelerated pace.鈥� When challenges like COVID and supply chain issues start to resolve, prepare for a wave of skiers ripping down the slopes, their personal coaches softly purring from the pockets of their coats.

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Warning: This story contains graphic details that may be disturbing to some readers. If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol addiction, visit听听or call 1-800-662-HELP.

My brother, Chris, was somewhere between his bedroom and the morgue when my plane took off from the Denver airport, headed for Las Vegas. When I landed, my stepdad was there to get me. We drove to my parents鈥� house, in Henderson, Nevada, in silence. That morning at 9:30, my mom had walked into Chris鈥檚 room and found him dead, lying faceup on his bed, his mouth, neck, and chest crusted with blood.

My mom started screaming, first at Chris and then for my stepdad. He came running, saw Chris鈥檚 body, and dialed 911. When he called and told me what had happened, a sound came out of my body like nothing I鈥檇 ever heard before, and it kept coming as I crumpled against the wall. My eight-year-old and her friend were playing on the grass outside the kitchen window. I texted the little girl鈥檚 mother to come get her. Within an hour, I was on my way to the house where my brother had lived for the past three years, and where, on the morning before he died, he鈥檇 taken his bike out for a ride.

It wasn鈥檛 a long ride, just a half-hour spin through my parents鈥� neighborhood. Later I鈥檇 learn that he did this almost every morning. He鈥檇 leave just after dawn, before the desert heat rose up and paralyzed everything. He鈥檇 pedal three blocks in one direction, then turn and do four, then back across five or six, then home to my parents鈥�.

By the time he had adopted this daily ritual, there weren鈥檛 many things that made him happy. But my mom said that he was happy when he rode his bike. And though our relationship had become strained by then, I have a text from him dated March 18, 2020, that reads, 鈥淲hen this pandemics over lets plan on riding a little of the Katy Trail out near St. Louis.鈥�

Chris died the following May, as COVID-19 raged. That message is hard for me to read, because it shows that my attempt to help him wasn鈥檛 in vain, just too late.

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Powder Days听is the November pick for the 国产吃瓜黑料 Book Club. You can learn more about the book club听here,听or join us on听听to discuss the book.

A few months ago, an acquaintance who follows me on social media asked, 鈥淎re you independently wealthy? I mean, you do a lot of skiing.鈥�

I鈥檓 not, but his assumption was fair鈥攕kiing is more expensive than ever and increasingly inaccessible to all but the wealthy. It would take a long time to explain how my husband and I managed to forge a life that revolves around skiing for us and our three kids, including becoming ski bums in our early twenties, clinging to those selves as we built a family, and finding ways to work in the ski industry during that time, thereby gaming the system in our own little ways to get the cheapest season passes and gear possible. Now it turns out I can skip that explanation, thanks to Heather Hansman鈥檚 superbly reported and lyrical new book , which looks at how difficult it鈥檚 become for mountain-town locals and devoted dirtbags to find a way to keep skiing.

Powder Days is part anatomy听of a 鈥渟kid鈥� (Jackson, Wyoming, slang for a ski bum), part examination of the changing culture and economics of the ski industry, and part ode to a lifestyle that Hansman once had but left and may never again be able to recover. Hansman is an accomplished writer and environmental columnist for 国产吃瓜黑料, and her first book, , hangs on a solo pack-raft trip she made on Utah鈥檚 Green River; in its pages she waxes poetic about the beauty surrounding her and reports on water issues that vex the West.听Powder Days adheres to the same format, only Hansman鈥檚 voice听shines more here, an indication of how fully she is in her element. A lifelong skier, she grew up digging her edges into blue-ice runs on the tiny, East Coast mom-and-pop hills her parents could afford to take her to. She kept skiing through high school, and in college, she鈥檇 wake up 鈥渋n the post-party, predawn dark to drive across Maine and New Hampshire just to ski knobby backcountry lines in the White Mountains.鈥�

After college, skiing brought her west, following a conversation around a campfire in Maine, where her 鈥渇uture boss鈥� told her he could get jobs for her and her friend Katie in Colorado. The women听were good skiers, and wily, and for several years during Hansman鈥檚 twenties, her sole focus was skiing, which she supported by working a series of different jobs (from liftie to guest services to听patroller) at Colorado鈥檚 Beaver Creek Resort. It was the kind of life that ski films by Matchstick Productions and Teton Gravity Research used to herald: work, party, scrape by, and ski as much as possible. But along the way, Hansman grew weary of the scraping-by part and scared she鈥檇 鈥渨ake up at fifty, still grumpily scanning lift tickets and bemoaning the lack of snow.鈥� She became an editor at Ski听magazine, a job that set her up perfectly to both ski more and learn the inner workings of the ski industry. A few years later, however, she left Ski听and moved to a city.

That鈥檚 when her life choices began to torment her, and the crux of the book comes into view. For 250 pages, she toggles between examining the existential dread she feels over never becoming the kind of skier who embodies 鈥渢he soul of skiing鈥濃�攖hat raw, slightly stinky, always hungry, but most dedicated skier in the sport鈥檚 societal strata鈥攁nd all of the forces that threaten the survival of the ski bum. These diehards have all shunned the trappings of the middle class鈥攆rom benefits to college educations to homeownership鈥攊n favor of doing whatever it takes to spend every winter day chasing something currently at great risk: snow, preferably powder. Finally, burdened by the fear that she gave up too much when she pivoted her life away from skiing, Hansman takes to the road to see if she did turn right when she should have stayed left.

As she makes her way from Vermont to Colorado, and from Montana to West Virginia, we meet people who took the path she didn鈥檛. Each one, to a fault, is lovestruck by snow, deeply introspective about their life choices, and a ripper. Yet each is plagued by forces in both the world at large and the ski industry that threaten their precarious existence. Hansman lingers on them long enough for us to understand their reasons for shunning a more comfortable life in favor of skiing 150 days a year.

But the real importance of this book is apparent in the difficult-to-read yet clear-eyed reporting on the ski industry. Hansman鈥檚 gaze is unflinching as she calls out the white and wealthy niche market the industry caters to (more than half of resort skiers earn annual incomes of over $100,000, and 87 percent of them are white) and the housing crisis hurting听ski towns (, for instance, showed that the gap between what an average household could afford and the median price of a home there could grow by up to 400 percent in the next decade). She looks at the high rate of alcoholism, addiction, and suicide in such towns鈥擧ansman reports that Aspen alone 鈥渉as three times the national average of completed suicides鈥濃�攁nd the accelerating climate crisis that many ski companies simultaneously contribute to but are trying to battle. Ultimately, you see that the heart of skiing鈥檚 myth, which dates back to Warren Miller sleeping in the parking lot of Sun Valley, Idaho, is barely beating, and where it is, its remaining open arteries are quickly stiffening.

It鈥檚 all so stark and depressing that toward the end of Powder Days, I wondered if it was even possible for Hansman to find something for us to be hopeful about. In the end, she does and she doesn鈥檛. To find out, you鈥檒l have to read this beautiful, aching, and honest portrayal of a skier wistfully longing for something she gave up and an industry that seems to be devouring its own soul. You鈥檒l find some heroes hanging听on to the reason so many of us started skiing in the first place, and a few pockets听that are still managing to preserve the magic.

The post 鈥楶owder Days鈥� Is an Honest Look at Whether It鈥檚 Still Possible to Be a Ski Bum appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

The log on my son Hatcher鈥檚 phone says he tried my number eight times on the afternoon of March 15, yet the calls never came through. As I found out later, he鈥檇 suffered a head injury while skiing at Colorado鈥檚听Eldora Mountain Resort, was completely confused and disoriented, and was trying to reach me.听The calls that didn鈥檛 connect were probably made from somewhere on the mountain. He didn鈥檛 get a good signal until he reached the parking lot.

Three of us鈥攎y husband, Shawn, our nine-year-old daughter, Hollis, and I鈥攈ad been skiing at Eldora earlier in the day, and we were driving home. Hatcher, 18, had come up later than we did;听to my surprise, he鈥檇 texted me saying that he鈥檇 gotten over the upset stomach that had kept him home when we left, that he鈥檇 scored one of the parking passes the resort required because of COVID-19, and that he鈥檇 鈥減robably see you soon!鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 so glad!鈥� I texted back, but I actually was hoping he鈥檇 ditch his family and hook up with friends. It had been a bad year for Hatcher鈥攁 combination of pandemic disruptions and losses in our family鈥攁nd he was overdue for some fun.

The log shows that after the eight attempts, he tried texting. But I was driving, so I missed those as well. Finally, he called Shawn, and when they connected, what we heard was terrifying.

Hatcher was dissociating, on the verge of tears, and he had no idea what he was doing. He kept asking us how he鈥檇 gotten where he was and why he was there. He said he could see the car鈥攖he one we were in, about seven听miles away from him鈥攑arked in the lot. He announced that he was going to walk over, start it up, and drive home.

With fear in his voice, Shawn said, 鈥淣o, Hatcher, we have the car. We鈥檙e driving it. And we鈥檒l come get you.鈥� Hatcher repeated the same nonsensical plan, and we knew something was very wrong. We did a U-turn as soon as we could and floored it back to Eldora. We kept Hatcher on the line and reached a longtime family friend who runs the Eldora Nordic Center, which is perched low on the mountain鈥檚 east听side, and where I鈥檝e worked as a part-time Nordic instructor for several years. We asked her to run out, grab Hatcher, and bring him indoors. That helped ease our immediate panic, but we still had no idea what had happened to our son.

During the 15-minute drive back to Eldora, we discussed possibilities. Teens are teens, we live in Boulder County, and weed is legal鈥攃ould Hatcher have gotten into听a bad strain? Or was he suddenly having a psychotic episode? Not impossible, given that there鈥檚 some mental illness in the family tree. Oddly, the one thing that didn鈥檛 occur to us was that he鈥檇 hit his head.

We should have thought of that immediately. Where we live, concussions are very common. The kids start ski and mountain-bike racing in grade school. By high school, these young athletes are intimate with taking risks, and kids in many families we know have suffered concussions.听According to the Micheli Center, head injuries account for up to 20 percent of the 600,000 annual skiing and snowboarding injuries in the United States (for children that figure is 22 percent), and 22 to 42听percent of all ski-related head injuries are severe enough to result in either loss of consciousness or clinical signs of concussion. But we鈥檇 been lucky鈥攏either Hatcher nor our oldest son, Scout, had ever had one.

Arriving at Eldora, we ran to the Nordic Center and found Hatcher. He was visibly unscathed; even his helmet was free of scratches. But my middle kid, who likes to explore complicated topics like existentialism and the histories of both World Wars, couldn鈥檛 remember his sister鈥檚 age鈥斺�淪he鈥檚 seven and in fourth grade鈥濃�攐r his height and weight鈥斺�淚鈥檓 five foot two, 185 pounds鈥濃�攐r why his family was staring at him with frightened faces. Well, maybe because he was wrong about Hollis鈥檚 age and he鈥檚 five foot six听and weighs 130. He also thought Trump was still president.

Fortunately, ski-patrol personnel showed up soon after we arrived. They put a neck brace on him, loaded him into a sled, snowmobiled him across the base of the mountain, and unpacked him at their headquarters.

From the outside, Hatcher听looked fine鈥攎inus his worried expression. Then his听questions began:听What day is it? What happened? Where am I? Why do I have this neck brace on? Patrol determined that he鈥檇 sustained a concussion; they didn鈥檛 know how, and we still don鈥檛, but one possibility was that he was hitting jumps in the terrain park, biffed听a landing, and smacked his head on solid snow.听After an hour in the patrol room, he started to seem better, so a paramedic (assisted by a doctor reached by phone) decided it was OK for us to drive him to听an emergency room 50 minutes away in Boulder, rather than wait for an ambulance.

Soon we were in the waiting room, with people staring because, as Shawn said, Hatcher seemed punch-drunk.听Hatcher said he needed to use the restroom, so Shawn guided him to it. When he finished, Shawn needed to go, so he told Hatcher to return to the chair he鈥檇 been sitting in. But when Shawn came out, he found Hatcher wandering around aimlessly. When Hatcher saw him, he said, 鈥淒ad! Why are you 丑别谤别?鈥�

Later, sitting inside a private room, Hatcher and I were waiting to hear the results of his CAT scan when his behavior started to get weirder. Dressed in an exam gown and lying in a hospital bed, he would lift his arm every 40 seconds or so, look at his watch, and ask, 鈥淚s today Monday? Do I work? Did I blow it off?鈥�

鈥淵es, it鈥檚 Monday,鈥� I鈥檇 say. 鈥淣o, you don鈥檛 work, and no, you didn鈥檛 blow off your boss.鈥�

Then, looking at his gown and pinching a bit of the fabric, he鈥檇 ask, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 this?鈥� Later, when we finally left his room to head through the lobby, he shook his head and said, 鈥淲hoa! I鈥檓 in the emergency room?鈥�

It was all so bizarre. But what really got me was when he tried to piece together how he鈥檇 ended up at the hospital.

鈥淪o patrol found me and called you?鈥� he said.

鈥淣o, you called us, and we came to you.鈥�

鈥淥h, man. I鈥檓 so sorry you had to do that.鈥�

鈥淒on鈥檛 worry about it, Hatch. It was no problem. We love you.鈥澨�

鈥淲ell, thank you guys for rescuing me. I couldn鈥檛 have done it on my own.鈥澨�

And that鈥檚 when I came within a forced smile of crying. Because what really happened was that Hatcher鈥攚ith his rattled brain鈥攔escued himself.

It appears (though we鈥檒l never know) that no one saw him crash, hit his head, lose consciousness, or struggle back up. No one noticed a dazed kid moving from wherever he fell to the Nordic Center parking lot. And no one heard the fear in his voice as he called and recalled his parents.

I got stuck on the sadness of this for a few days, and then I decided to try and understand听it better. While Hatcher recovered on the couch鈥攄octor鈥檚 orders for him were to chill out and not move much or do much鈥擨 called the neurology department at the University of Colorado鈥檚 Anschutz Medical Campus in Aurora. Dr. Christopher M. Filley, the department鈥檚 director of behavioral neurology, helped me grasp what might have happened.

鈥淔rom what you told me, your son did not appear to be sufficiently injured to prompt someone on the slope to stop and see how he was doing,鈥� he said. 鈥淏ecause it seems no observer can provide any information about the event, and because he does not remember what happened, it cannot be determined with certainty what actually took place. I emphasize that I defer to his doctor with respect to the diagnosis and treatment of this young man. But if I were to speculate, it is plausible that your son could have hit his head, sustained a concussion, and then been in an acute confusional state,听meaning that he was awake but not fully lucid. A person in this condition could conceivably get down the mountain and call for help, because the brain will sometimes fall back on relatively automatic behaviors鈥攚hat it knows to do well from repeated past experiences.鈥�

A doctor in the ER had called Hatcher鈥檚 repeated questioning perseveration,听which can be caused by damage to the frontal cortex, the region of the brain that controls a person鈥檚 self-awareness and inhibition. Without such control, someone who perseverates finds it difficult to stop a particular action and switch to another.听

Filley described what was probably going on inside Hatcher鈥檚 head.

鈥淭he brain consists of about three pounds of soft, gelatinous tissue inside the skull,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t floats in cerebrospinal fluid to help protect it from injury, but when the head is subjected to a blow or jolt, the brain can still be damaged.鈥� With traumatic brain injuries, including concussions, the damage typically occurs deep in the brain, where the connections between neurons are stretched, and this may have been what happened to Hatcher. In some people, Filley explained, the brain surface is also damaged, because the brain is thrust against the bones on the inside of the skull.

According to Hatcher鈥檚 CAT scan, he sustained no bleeding or bruising, only a concussion, perhaps because he had a helmet on. Head injuries from skiing or other impact sports can be much worse. A friend suffered a severe concussion after hitting a tree while skiing, and听the resulting injury caused such intense vertigo that, for a long time, he could only walk down a hallway with his head sliding against the wall. And after the last of multiple concussions, another friend鈥檚 son had to sit in a room with double-blackout blinds for a month to avoid crushing migraines. 鈥淗e still struggles, had some lasting cognitive deficits, and has to take daily medication that causes weight loss, so he can鈥檛 gain weight,鈥澨齢is mom听says. 鈥淚t changed his whole identity.听He went from identifying as an honors student and athlete to a struggling student with a brain injury and no longer an athlete.鈥� The good news is that he recently went on a two-week skiing road trip with another of Hatcher鈥檚 friends听and sent his mom videos of himself skiing powder and loving life. 鈥淗e鈥檒l be OK,鈥澨齭he says, 鈥渂ut that journey is rough.鈥�

As for Hatcher, after 24 hours, he听stopped perseverating, although he still can鈥檛 remember anything from two days prior to his injury, only flashes from the day it happened听and not much from the day after.

On doctor鈥檚 orders, for two weeks he had to lay low, avoid mental stimuli (screens and books), and make sure he didn鈥檛 do anything that could cause him to fall and sustain a second brain injury. If this happens while a person is still symptomatic, it can result in 鈥渟econd impact syndrome,鈥� which can cause death. So we鈥檙e urging Hatcher to use extra caution even after his full recovery time is complete.

What I鈥檓 happy to report now is that Hatcher is up and about, as seemingly healthy as ever. Some friends have warned that new symptoms can emerge weeks after the original injury. I鈥檓 crossing my fingers and watching him closely. And I鈥檓 endlessly grateful that when he crashed he was wearing his helmet. But we鈥檝e also had some long conversations about the importance of doing any outdoor activity with a friend. If Hatcher had, there would have been an account of his injury, and I wouldn鈥檛 still be lying awake at night, imagining the worst-case scenario.

The post My Son Fell While Skiing. Then His Mind Went Blank. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Hell hath no fury like social media does for a well-meaning Brooklyn mom and writer who shared听her story about living in Boulder, Colorado, during the pandemic.

This harsh truth became apparent on March 8, when The Washington Post Magazine 辫耻产濒颈蝉丑别诲听 about moving with her family from Brooklyn鈥檚 Park Slope neighborhood to Boulder, where she lived for most of 2020 and into 2021. The article听is an amiable part of听a special issue on spring travel, but an army of trolls, angry Boulderites, and Front Range truthers took to their devices to rip it to shreds. Their insults鈥攚hich showed up in the story鈥檚 comments section and on social media鈥攔anged from 鈥渓mfao did WaPo really just publish a whole ass article about some yuppies moving from one place to another鈥� to 鈥淚鈥檓 almost in awe of how clueless this woman is.鈥� We reached out to Miller, who said she hadn鈥檛 read the comments (good idea!), to find out how it feels to be the victim of a Colorado landslide.

国产吃瓜黑料: Did you have any idea your piece would be greeted with such over-the-top vitriol? I mean, it鈥檚 not like you stomped on a kitten. Why are people so fired up?
Miller: I honestly didn鈥檛 think a lot of people were going to read it. It鈥檚 a travel issue of The听Washington Post Magazine鈥攚ho even reads special issues? But it ended up on the 笔辞蝉迟鈥�s home page, I guess, and got traction. I was expecting some pushback, like, Here鈥檚 this white, privileged woman writing about fleeing the pandemic,听but I didn鈥檛 think Boulderites would get really angry. I thought they would understand that this was meant to be a fun fish-out-of-water piece.

Have you read the comments on the article itself, on Twitter, Reddit, and other social media platforms?
Oh, God,听no. I never read the comments on any of my stories鈥攁nd I don鈥檛 for this precise reason. Because I think people have strong feelings about things, and they use those platforms to express those feelings. I don鈥檛 need to engage with that. If people have constructive feedback, I鈥檓 happy to hear it, but those platforms are often used only to vent.

Do the reactions change the way you feel about Boulder or Colorado or people in general?
It鈥檚 funny, right? There鈥檚 a part in the story where I talk to a guy who was dressed up in drag on a street corner, who鈥檚 standing near two opposing groups of protesters. I asked him why he was out there, and basically he said, 鈥淏ecause there鈥檚 too much tension and animosity on the other corners.鈥� To me, that鈥檚 Boulder. It鈥檚 that open-mindedness and sense of freedom, and people are able to be who they are. I guess if the story is getting that kind of negative reaction, that鈥檚 contrary at least to this one gentleman鈥檚 view of what Boulder is.

I thought Boulder or Coloradans would understand that every place is incredibly complex, and that in a 2,000-word story鈥攚hich is first person and based on my specific experience鈥攁ll I can do is describe what happened to me. If you want a story that鈥檚 about what it鈥檚 like to live in Boulder听and be a longtime Boulderite,听and you听observe the changes, that鈥檚 a story worth writing and thinking about. But that鈥檚 not a story for the spring travel issue of a magazine put out by The Washington Post. That鈥檚 a hardcore feature that you report when we鈥檙e not in a pandemic. That wasn鈥檛 the story I was asked to write, and it鈥檚 not what I wrote.

I鈥檝e heard people calling you out for not having a real connection to Boulder. For example, they took issue with your use of formal names for trailheads, like the Walter Orr Roberts Trail, which locally is known as NCAR, which is a reference to its location behind the National Center for Atmospheric Research lab.
But for readers of The Washington Post Magazine, this is a travel story, and if you鈥檙e traveling to Boulder, you need to be able to easily locate the things that are referenced in it. In terms of trailheads, it doesn鈥檛 matter what Boulderites call it. You have to be able to Google it to know where you鈥檙e going.

I thought this comment from an angry reader of your story听was hysterical, because there鈥檚 some truth to it: 鈥淭hey were so into it [Boulder], they actually think it鈥檚 interesting.鈥� I鈥檝e been to Park Slope, and I have to say, it鈥檚 a lot more culturally stimulating than Boulder.
It鈥檚 not really fair to criticize one place for lacking aspects of the other. Both cities have special things to recommend them, though I wouldn鈥檛 say broth tonic is one of them.

OK, having lived 13 miles west of听Boulder for 17 years, there are a few things that I have questions about. Starting with: What听the hell are 鈥渉iking sandals鈥�?
They鈥檙e like Keens or Tevas鈥攂asically sandals, open-toe, with tread, and people wear them hiking, and everyone I saw on the trails last summer wore them. I called them that听instead of their official names, because I didn鈥檛 want to give free publicity to听big brands.

Look, the fact that I鈥檓 calling them hiking sandals and saying the Walter Orr Roberts Trail and not NCAR鈥攖his shows we are outsiders. That鈥檚 the point. The story is about the fact that we are New Yorkers who don鈥檛 belong here, and who on that day were ruining the experience of people who were hiking with us. It could not be more self-aware.

Where did you read that the average summertime humidity in Boulder is zero percent? Several weather websites say it鈥檚 in the 40 to 50 percent range.听
I found that information听.

Ah, I see. This site is talking about the 鈥渇eels like鈥� humidity of Boulder in summertime. From someone used to eastern humidity, that鈥檚 probably accurate鈥攖hat is, it would feel like zero percent.
Totally. In New York during the summer, it鈥檚 like standing in the shower all the time.

You mentioned that you can drive 4,000 vertical feet in Rocky Mountain National Park 鈥渋n just a few minutes.鈥� You also mentioned how harrowing the drive was for you. Where were you that you climbed that high that quickly?
That is directly off the website for Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. That鈥檚 from the base to the highest point above the tree line. And it did not take us more than 15 minutes to get from the entrance of the park up to above the tree line.

In the story, you mention letting your kid 鈥渏ump in鈥� the Blue River in Breckenridge, and that you kept 鈥渙ne eye on him and another on the quaint shops and caf茅s.鈥� That鈥檚 a real river with a strong current, so this part confused the heck out of me.听
We鈥檙e talking about the part of the river that鈥檚 right in downtown Breck. All the kids were down there, playing in that river. They were all wearing their hiking sandals. [Laughs.]

I鈥檝e seen comments from people demanding that you 鈥渃heck your privilege.鈥� They also call you 鈥渢one deaf鈥� for saying things like, 鈥淚t was an opportunity for us to test-drive a new kind of existence, even be a different kind of family.鈥� What would you say to them?
I would say that I do check my privilege in the piece. I even use the word! And again, it鈥檚 a travel story. The point of traveling is to try on a different existence. I think that鈥檚 something a lot of people might be interested in doing if they had the chance. Or if they were lucky鈥攁nd privileged鈥攅nough to have family willing to take them in during a pandemic.

One commenter wrote, 鈥淵ou shouldn鈥檛 be writing CO articles yet, your voice is that of an outsider and it hurts to read.鈥� Should only insiders be allowed to write about Boulder?
Then it wouldn鈥檛 be a travel story. It wouldn鈥檛 be a story for people coming to check out Boulder. I鈥檓 sure the insider would have lots of cool recommendations鈥攚hich, it turns out, I wasn鈥檛 able to experience or know about because of the pandemic. From the jump, I make it clear I鈥檓 an outsider and that鈥檚 the point of view you鈥檙e getting.

I noticed that you left some of Boulder鈥檚 less perfect stuff out鈥攖he year-round homelessness problem, all the millennials who swarmed Boulder Creek last summer, completely disregarding the mask mandate. Did you not see these things, or did they not fit into the narrative?
I鈥檒l answer the second question first. Again, because this was written for a time when people can travel to Boulder freely鈥攖hat is, post-pandemic鈥攜ou hopefully won鈥檛 still have the kind of University of Colorado chaos you mention鈥攖hat is, the people in Boulder Creek. But, yeah, I was well aware of the university and problems students can create. As for the homeless problem, I guess鈥� put it this way:听I鈥檓 coming from New York, so what I鈥檓 seeing here is what I鈥檓 seeing back home.

What was your takeaway from all this?
Don鈥檛 read the comments! Other than that, all I can say is that I recognize both our privilege and our outsider status. It鈥檚 all there in the story. And, yes, Boulder has shown us a different kind of existence鈥攊n a really good way. But we鈥檙e still going back to New York.

The post A Park Slope Transplant Wrote a Story About Boulder… appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In 2017, Matt Sterbenz was heading up a company he鈥檇 founded, 4FRNT, a successful ski brand known for launching the freeskiing movement. 4FRNT鈥檚 skis are crisp, light, and torsionally stiff鈥攁nd, like pretty much all skis, they鈥檙e also made of materials that are horrendous for the environment. The vast majority of the brands constructing the tools that move us across snow use some of the most polluting materials on the planet, such as petroleum-based resins, plastics, and carbon fiber. Sterbenz had to use these, too, because no alternative had yet been created. But a businessman named Charles Dimmler was about to hand him a solution.

Dimmler is the founder of Checkerspot, a company that uses algae to bio-manufacture oils that can be used in polyurethanes and textile coatings. Polyurethane makes up the plastic components in a typical ski, and it鈥檚 traditionally made of petroleum-based chemicals, so it has a large environmental footprint: According to one German lifecycle assessment, the production of a single ski emits about 60 pounds of carbon (in comparison, burning one gallon of gasoline emits 20 pounds). Ski manufacturing also typically has a very large water footprint, a long supply chain, and generates huge amounts of waste. The irony is striking: Building skis and other winter hardgoods contributes significantly to the climate change wreaking havoc on our ski seasons.

But Dimmler and Sterbenz were about to make a breakthrough. The company that emerged from their collaboration, WNDR Alpine, uses renewable energy to fashion boards with sustainably harvested aspen wood from Utah and polyurethane made from algae, not petroleum. The brand is also reducing waste in its manufacturing process (in 2020, WNDR diverted 1,200 pounds of trash from the landfill). Its efforts seem to be resonating with consumers: Last year, WNDR sold out of the most popular sizes of its Intention 110 backcountry ski. And in 2021, with backcountry skiing predicted to explode (see p. 33), the company expects the same.

WNDR isn鈥檛 the first snowsports brand to innovate with the environment in mind. In Europe, Capita Snowboards鈥� factory runs on 100 percent green energy, and Grown Skis uses eco-friendlier basalt instead of carbon fiber, sustainably harvested wood, and glues made from pine tree resin. Among U.S. brands, Mervin and Niche lead the way. Niche, founded in 2010, builds its snowboards from sustainably harvested wood cut near its factory in Utah, uses basalt as well, and digitally prints its top sheets using water-based inks. It also partnered with a company called Entropy Resins to create its patented Snappy Sap Bioresin, made of renewable materials from the industrial waste streams of the paper pulp and biofuels industries.

Mervin (parent company of Lib Tech, Gnu, and Roxy) uses the eco-friendliest materials available, produces zero hazardous waste, and runs its operation primarily on wind and hydroelectric power. It also formed an extensive recycling program, as well as a sawdust-to-soil compost program. Together, such innovations have taken these brands to the next level in eco-friendly manufacturing. What will it take for everyone else to catch up?

Too Big鈥攁nd Small鈥攖o Change

Some big ski brands are taking steps to make the hardgoods industry greener. Atomic鈥檚 North American Brand Manager Sean Kennedy said, 鈥淎tomic uses tons, literally tons, of recycled plastics in our ski boot assortment. We also power all of our ski presses with reclaimed wood [from factory scraps], and the excess heat from this process is then recaptured to heat our entire factory and adjacent facilities.鈥�

Vo虉lkl has eliminated hazardous substances from many stages of production. Rossignol uses wood cores from certified sustainable sources in its Black Ops skis, 100 percent recycled steel in its edges, and 30-percent recycled plastic in the bases. And La Sportiva switched from carbon to wood in all of its skis, and is using FSC-certified woods for the 2021 line.

Yet the vast majority of brands use plastics and resins made from toxic petrochemicals. Experts estimate it can take 500 to 1,000 years for these materials to decompose in a landfill. So brands still aren鈥檛 addressing one of the industry鈥檚 key environmental hazards.

鈥淎s an industry with a future dependent on consistent winters, our industry is uniting around climate change and we’re working hard to give every brand opportunities to step up to meaningfully address it,鈥� said Chris Steinkamp, director of advocacy for Snowsports Industries of America鈥檚 ClimateUnited initiative.

But 鈥渟tepping up鈥� isn鈥檛 that simple, said WNDR co-founder Xan Marshland: 鈥淓conomically, our industry is a drop in the bucket compared to larger ones, like aerospace or automotive. There鈥檚 not much incentive to innovate beyond what鈥檚 already available.鈥� According to NPD, the ski and snowboard industry generates $2.3 billion in annual revenue (compared to, say, the apparel industry鈥檚 $368 billion).

And even if suppliers did make changes, 鈥渓arger brands will require more time to get adequate infrastructure set up to support a new [production] process,鈥� said Marshland. For larger brands, which can produce more than a million pairs of skis every year, obtaining enough green materials also appears to be a challenge. Niche, for example, uses a resin-hardener called Recyclamine that allows skis and snowboards to be fully recycled. 鈥淚鈥檓 not sure the supply chain is large enough yet for everyone to be able to switch,鈥� said founder Ana Van Pelte.

The Upside of Small

In some ways, greening a company is easier for new brands that are starting from the ground up. Mervin founder Pete Saari said, 鈥淲orking towards sustainability and nontoxic, recyclable boards has been part of Mervin鈥檚 DNA since we began in the early 鈥�80s. We knew we were going to be building every day, so we didn鈥檛 want to work with toxic resins or materials for personal safety and health reasons.鈥�

The brand was broke when it started, Saari says. 鈥淸But while] scarcity and 鈥榥o money鈥� sounds bad, when it comes to creating motivation to maximize material usage, it鈥檚 a strength.鈥� From the beginning, Mervin was able to 鈥渟cour the world of materials,鈥� looking for ones that met both the company鈥檚 performance and sustainability standards. Today, it鈥檚 a profitable business.

And now WNDR has created a line of skis with its AlgalTech technology, using plastics derived from oils secreted by microalgae. These plastics replace conventional materials derived from fossil fuels (carbon fiber, plastic, polyurethane), and create a ski that has a short supply line, high performance, and a lower impact on the environment than traditional skis.

But all of these companies still impact the environment simply by manufacturing something. That鈥檚 why Cyrus Schenck, founder of Renoun Skis, believes there is no such thing as a truly green ski (or snowboard). In his view, the best thing skiers can do is ride the skis they already own longer. 鈥淭he average lifespan of a pair of skis is 100 days, yet the average American skis 2.7 days a year,鈥� he said. Most buy skis far more often than once every 37 years.

Schenck scoffs at the idea of stopping ski production entirely, 鈥渂ut a company can offset skis and shipping by buying carbon credits,鈥� he said. Renoun does what it can to green up its manufacturing, but ultimately, Schenck believes the best way brands can minimize impact is by encouraging skiers to ride their boards longer and participate in takeback programs (which WNDR offers) when they鈥檙e done.

Getting It Done

Of course, creating products with dramatically lower environmental impacts and encouraging customers to use them longer aren鈥檛 mutually exclusive. And Mervin, Niche, and WNDR believe that it鈥檚 possible for other companies鈥攊ncluding long-established ones鈥攖o make changes to shrink their environmental footprints.

The main excuses from bigger brands? Cost, accessibility, and scalability. Four decades after starting Mervin, Saari said, 鈥淓ven today we find there is some resistance from the business community on sustainable efforts, with [some] studies by business experts saying that consumer purchasing decisions aren鈥檛 significantly impacted by environmental efforts or practices.鈥�

Niche鈥檚 Van Pelte added, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to name any names, but bigger companies than ours have the money and resources to do more and better than we do, and their failure to act on pushing the technology further is really unfortunate. They should be putting their money where their mouths are and stepping up to the plate, if they truly care about the environment as much as they claim to.鈥�

WNDR, for one, is willing to share its technologies for the greater good. 鈥淪ix or seven brands throughout the snowboard and ski space鈥� have reached out about partnerships to incorporate AlgalTech into their product lines, said marketing director Pep Fujas. This bodes well for giving greener skis a bigger share of the market.

And though it may take time, Van Pelte believes the environmental methods Niche and others use 鈥渁re absolutely stuff that anyone could adopt and put into practice. It might be more expensive, but the more people who adopt it, the easier and more affordable it will become.鈥�

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