Grumpy Old Shop Guy

I wrote the Grumpy Old Shop guy column in Off=Piste Magazine for a few years and it was an opportunity to assume the voice of an older, less tolerant version of myself…mostly. My good friend Dave Waag the publisher, editor and head writer of this black and white, hardcore, backcountry tabloid called it wisdom, insight and questionable opinion. I guess that’s about right.

The Great White Highway

It’s the inevitable and ponderous start to another ski season, and I’ve got a worried mind. Driving my old Jeep over the local pass last weekend, a couple of thoughts popped out – I need new wiper blades and the good December snow reminds me that a mid-winter ski safari should be planned. Friends are using up their data plans sending me trip info and good reasons to join their posse for a few days of hiking and turning. But the annual question surfaces: Where to go? So many pricey options and so little cash. So many weather predictions and so few weather certainties. An older skier must often rely on prior experience, throw the boots toward the door and hit the snowy White Highway.

Historically, my road trips have started by putting some Neil Young prairie rock in the stereo slot of the old Grumpymobile and trying to come to a consensus with my squirrely, non-committal ski buddies. Depending on available slacker time, the slimness of the travel budget and weather reports gleaned from resort snow phone calls (pre-internet for the younger reader), we hit the slick roadways for points north and east – since our backs are against the western ocean. Those care-free days of roaming the West in search of snow, cold beverages and a free couch are mostly over, except for harmless local shenanigans. In a bold attempt to remember trips-gone-by and hopefully share useful advice for those in search of the Great White Highway, here is biased list of skiing destinations along with some insightful opinions to help tip the scales and hone in on your next destination.

Utah
Pro – After spending a winter in the 1980’s sleeping on a Park City couch and selectively touring the Wasatch and Uinta canyons daily, I got me some of that best snow on earth but I had to wait and work for it. That soft white curtain blowing from my ski tips to my knees and up my torso and covering my face is a Class-A narcotic. This potent drug will cause a young skier to endure famine, poverty, conjugal drought, parental abandonment and social condemnation. Well worth rehab, in retrospect.

Con – Deciphering the drinking rules and “enjoying” the 3.2 beer is enough to turn some away. For the rest, the likelihood of getting powder skunked on a three-day junket that leaves you rattling around on weeks-old tracks and hard pan is relatively high. When the snow gods do deliver, the competition can be as fierce as the avalanche hazard. When the gold rush does arrive, touring favorite local shots will have youngsters stepping all over your ski tails and Red Pine will be tracked out by 10 a.m.

British Columbia
Pro: Like the friendly neighbors they are, hospitable Canadians share arguably the best powder skiing on this planet, and you can help yourself with a valid passport and a backcountry ski (or, if you must, splitboard) set-up. The deep and well-layered Canadian pow is often safely sequestered in beautiful forest pokes that are both safe and sublime. Larch trees are the best ski trees because you can see through them as your awaiting, virgin line unfolds before you. Nelson, BC was my kind of town when the price of a hot tub and shower at the aquatic center was $1.50 and a pitcher of local ale at the Lord Nelson Hotel was $5 USD. It’ll cost you more now, but it’s still the gem of the Kootenays, eh.

Con: Your Whistler vacation might not meet expectations if you’re trying to sleep through the all-night Euro sing-alongs and wake-up to white rain at the base area. Also, Outside Magazine just blew the cover on small, soulful ski towns and hidden gems like Smithers and Terrace.

Montana
Pro: It’s name should suffice as your first clue, but wild mountains reign in Montana and there’s plenty of room to get away from what passes for a crowd in Big Sky Country. What Montana lacks in infrastructure, it makes up for in shear wild landscapes, plus there’s cool off- the-radar ski hills like Lost Trail and Lookout Pass to launch your backcountry ambitions.

Con: If touring is your goal, be sure to bring your sled, and we’re not talking kiddie sled. Along with vast wild country come long approaches best mitigated by your two-stroke ticket or, if your bank account allows, a nice smooth four-stroke sled. And just think, at least it’ll be wicked cold while you pin the throttle and follow the other Great White Highway.

The Great Northwest
Pro: For the geography impaired or those with DUI records, this is as close as you can get to the mythic snows of central British Columbia without a passport. The North Cascades offer Alp-like terrain and a generally stable snowpack and you’ll be hard pressed to beat the spring corn on a volcano. Did I mention the beer and coffee are legendary, and now both Oregon and Washington have legal weed.

Con: Generally speaking, you better like storm cycle skiing ‘cause you never know if Mother Nature is going to rain on the cake before the party is over – maybe that’s why the beer, coffee and now weed are hot commodoties.

New England
Pro: The oldest traditions of American skiing and real ski towns where you can find all kinds of trouble involving snow machines, fire arms, ice skates and sugar shacks.

Con: If you don’t generally wear a helmet, you might consider it due to the brushy nature of the glade shots that pass for tree skiing in the East, plus it’ll serve you well in the aforementioned activities, too.

Skinny Tips
Europe – A big money bet on getting worthy snow, but you will get beaucoup ski culture and many memorable episodes. I, however, can’t go back to Austria due to my name being on a watch list for an unpaid fine from the early ‘90’s. How was I to know the run was closed? After all, the sign was in German. It’s too bad, because the Arlberg is vast and the on-slope drinking and dining really beats the chili and PBR’s at my local hill. Chamonix is a skier’s Disneyland without the safety fences, so be careful. They hauled 40 bodies off those aiguilles the two months I was there.

Tetons – Don’t get lost on Teton Pass and spend a cold night out. That is my takeaway from time spent in that state-line range. Trouble can be found in the backcountry and in the town of Jackson Hole. Lost Texans can be found on Gros Ventre.

Colorado – How do I get a Rocky Mountain High on the cheap? I mooch off my brother and do day trippers along the I-70 corridor. An expeditious objective, like a 14er, takes some doing, and that snowpack is as fickle as a Vail matron.

Alaska – The native word for Denali should be “long climb for some skiing with cold feet”. If you are planning a trip in the Alaska Range, pick your partner(s) carefully. Many climbing parties who bail on the West Buttress route, do so because they can’t stand the sight of each other.

Iceland – Seriously, they should rename this island Niceland because of the easy-access Summer Solstice skiing, hot springs and hot Scandinavians.

Argentina – Get your party legs ready. The Buenos Aires locals have a whole different approach to the ski day plan at Las Lenas Resort than I have. Instead of my time-tested ski/beer/hot tub/dinner/bed plan, they have a ski/nap/dinner@10pm/disco ‘till 3am/bed agenda. This does keep the locals from busting an early start and getting in your line, but to be a gracious guest, I joined their late night fiestas, including torch skiing conga lines and burn holes in some treasured skiwear.

All right, that’s about all I’ve got for now. It’s time to limp through the crowd of milling gear shoppers and head down the soggy sidewalk to my reliable barista. Safe travels.

The Great White Highway by the Grumpy Old Shop Guy first appeared in Off-Piste Mag Issue 63

If The Boots Don’t Fit, Don’t Wear Them

The customer service button on the wall phone console blinks red, drawing my attention to the heavily stickered ski shop wall where the intercom soon yapped, but fat chance I’m goin’ to hustle to answer it. The inquiring customer most likely has a question I’ve heard before. I take another sip of my morning coffee and finish setting the mounting jig on a pair of high-priced planks before I limp over and answer the line.

You’d think that being re-employed by a ski shop, during the Indian summer of one’s life, would promote cynicism with a daily grouch meter reaching the red zone. But mostly, the years have smoothed out the youthful cockiness of the mullet-haired ski racer in me like a firm hand on a 12-inch mill bastard file. In fact, being beat-up by life’s blizzards has contributed to my having more patience in the shop and more compassion for the dumbass stuff that contributes to the rich pageant of ski shop life. My mind might ski outside the rope, from time to time, but I veer in when necessary and impart what experience has taught me.

Turns out, the caller doesn’t like the way her boots feel or ski. “Well, you’ll have to bring them down, so we can check ‘em out,” I say. You just can’t talk someone through a proper boot fit on the phone, and she’s starting to figure this out, too. The customer bought her new alpine touring boots from an on-line retailer. She probably got a sweet deal, with no shipping charge, but the real price, including the “hassle tax,” is going to cost her a drive downtown, at a minimum.

Most ski equipment (ok, almost everything) has become a commodity in the wide, wide world of internet gear sales. You can research ski poles, buy them on-line and most likely be satisfied with your purchase, same for goggles, hats and maybe even gloves. But ski boots are another beast. I’m going to go out on a cornice here, and say there isn’t another piece of ski equipment that is more important to get right than boots. Going to a ski shop, spreading some boot boxes out on the floor in front of you like friendly clam shells and finding a pair of keepers is a timetested ritual. Like friendships, successful ski boot fitting takes some connection time, and great boots (white-topped Merrell Super Comps or red Nordica Grand Prix are my hall of famers) last for many happy years, while bad ones get dropped off at the ski swap without a second thought.

Great ski boots can hurt a little, at first. But once broken in, they perform so well that it was worth the short term pinch. A ski racer buddy of mine didn’t wear socks in his Langes, because he wanted a true fit. Granted, he was banging gates for trophies and would peel off those frigid foot vises as soon as the race was over, but for him tight was right. I skied in sloppy telemark boots for so long that I had to ski with my alpine boots unbuckled for the first season back to the lock down ride, of the darkside, just so I could adjust to the support the boots (and bindings) offered.

Back to the phone call, the customer who called shows up at the shop later in the day. After some small talk, I pull the liner out of the boot shell, and she slips her foot into its thermo-fitable lushness. But I can see from where I’m kneeling that there will be no cooking of liners today. When I press my thumb down on the liner toe box, there’s a couple inches of room, and the liner smashes down like a marshmallow. Not good. But for the sake of professionalism and thoroughness, I administer the infamous “fingers in the shell test” on Miss Big Boots. Since the liner is already out of the shell, we can put her bare foot in with her toes touching the front-end but not jammed. I easily fit three fat fingers behind her heel, FAIL! The open space should be limited two fingers, or less, and be roughly the width of the inner boot plus a single ski sock. Now, with her foot centered in the boot, three more measurements come into play: the width, the height and the space around the heel. At no time should any part of her foot touch the shell, but the volume should not be too large, either. Miss Big Boots might as well have a tent around her foot; her mail-order boots are at least one size too big. Alpine touring boots that are too large not only offer poor ski control, but they are also a recipe for trouble while on the skin track. There would have been heel blisters and possibly tears in this gal’s future. And the only tears that should be shed on a ski day are tears of joy at the bottom of a blower powder run.

In addition to a proper “shell fit,” establishing a good boot fit requires experienced thermo-fitting or heat-molding of the liner. Essentially, every AT and telemark boot on the market now comes equipped with a high quality heat-moldable liner. And getting the best fit requires more than slipping in and skiing. Heat fitting the liner is essential and a service that is typically part of the experience when you buy boots in person from a brick and mortar shop. But most shops are happy to help fit your boots, regardless of where you purchased them, for a fee. And trust me, it’s well worth every penny when done well.

Lucky for Miss Big Boots, most established outdoor retail web sites have a generous return policy regarding ski boots, even if they have been skied in once. Our shop takes them back and resells them at an annual fall blow-out alongside our hammered demo skis. In this case, the customer made the right call to come on in and get help with the fitting. I encourage her to return her boots for the correct shell size and to come on back to the shop once she has the correct size boots, so I can dial in the fit for her.

I remember an old guy at a little shack of a ski shop on a western mountain pass in the 70’s. He took the time to show me how to pine tar and wax some wooden nordic skis. He was a grey-bearded bag of bones, and he didn’t have to take the time to show me the process, but he did it anyway. The way his gnarled hand painted on that black tar and the way it smelled still sticks with me as does his important lesson that knowledge is no good unless you pass it along. Plus, maybe that woman will buy her new boots from me next time.

But You Get What You Need - December 2012

They walk through the stickered-up ski shop doors holding hands. My take is that they’re sappy gear-lover lovers out on a wet fall afternoon and shopping turned-out to be their plan-B today. A little street noise follows them in the shop and I’m thinking it might be a great time to head-out for that beloved afternoon cup of coffee, but I’m augured in because there isn’t a helpful co-worker in sight.

Odds are that the cute couple is here to flex skis, shop for wilderness backpack-stuffer gifts or just get out of the rain. I watch heads swivel and eyes scan, offering few clues, but I’m sure they’re going to keep me from my coffee run and the solitude of the ski bench, where I had previus plans. Instead of flying for the door, I limp onto the old, brown carpet of the retail floor, noticing again, that my sales staff peeps are taking land-mine cover or a pee or, hopefully, doing something worthy like stocking the warehouse. It looks like the tire-kicking, ski-flexing couple is mine, so I’ll engage them in some time-honored retail waltz steps.

“How’s it going?” is my well-worn icebreaker. A “pretty well” is always what I hope for in reply, which verifies a pulse even if the customer is a drooling zombie. If they start out with “we’ve got a problem,” it sends the whole deal into a snow cave of no-return, which is usually about some slippery return problem. But these two seem like friendly skiers and it shouldn’t be too difficult to insert some sell, and hopefully up sell, into their wandering afternoon.

I’m trying to be a little better, these days, at sizing-up a customer’s affability before offending them and jeopardizing a sale, or worse, my seasonal employment. Years ago, when an earnest woman asked me what the mirror that folds into the top of a compass was used for, I flippantly replied that it’s to show her who’s lost. I regretted the comment immediately and even more so when the shop owner invited me back to the office for another “attitude” chat after the compass lady complained. If a customer was born without a sense of humor, I try to recognize this at the get-go before side slipping toward the cliff of unemployment.

Back to the ski-flexing couple, if I was the guy on her arm, and she was going to spend a Benji on me, I’d ask for a pair of ski crampons for Christmas. Or as the Euro dudes say crampons de ski. Maybe the light aluminum crampons and a classic used book on ski instruction to round out the $100. Ski crampons attached to a pair of alpine touring bindings and, like climbing skins, can make or break a day in the backfield. Let’s say the powder bowl you’ve been skinning up turns to wicked wind board, or worse, dreaded ice on the ridge. A pair of ski crampons will bite into that concrete surface, saving your ass from a ride back down the hill and leaving you forever in her debt. A debt you, hopefully, can repay with something better than a home-made back rub coupon.

Down the street, at the big box store, they could buy each other some clear plastic boxes and organize their gear piles by activity: a box for rivers, a box for mountains, a box for bikes and a box for the beach. But I’d rather they bought some waterproof duffle bags (differing colors for each activity, of course) from me. The plastic boxes might stack better in the gear-age but the duffels stow better in the back of the car, pickup or, best of all, helicopter.

Maybe she or he wants to keep their arm candy around for a while. In the name of home security, I’d recommend getting that credit card out for a pair of new three-antenna avalanche transceivers. I like the BCA Tracker 2 for its simplicity and elegance. Nothing wrong with the similar Ortovox and Pieps versions, either. If these two had a flush year, bless their luck, then they should spring for a whole new backcountry avy rig: avalanche floatation packs filled with transceivers, GPS units, carbon fiber probes, snow shovels (the weight of tablespoons) and the repair and first-aid kit-n-kaboodle. This lifesaver package can all be had for the price of a beater ’91 Subaru wagon.

Justifying a pack full of survival goodies would seem like a no-brainer except that baby always needs new shoes. A gear rep told me an antecdote about a wife who wanted her husband to buy a $750 floatation pack for added safety on an upcoming boy’s trip to British Columbia. He said, “We can’t afford it.” She said, “What’s the deductible on the truck?” He said, “A thousand bucks.” She said, “You’d spend a grand on a busted bumper and nothing on doubling your chances of survival in an avalanche.” Point made, advantage wife, again. However, that rep happens to sell floatation packs and we all know fear sells. Whether it is the terror of a suicide bomber or a wind-loaded,south-facing bowl, precautions should be measured and taken.

What if it’s a DIY (downturn income year) holiday season? A friend’s nephew gave me a survival bracelet he made from, what we use to call, parachute cord. It’s basically braided 3-mm cord in the shape of a bracelet with a tiny Fastex buckle that fits my skinny wrist. If my trip in the Alaskan bush goes south and I have to survive by snaring rabbits, I just unravel the bracelet and I’ve got 20-feet of “survival” line. The Rasta color scheme wouldn’t be my first choice, but it’s a sweet, thoughtful and inexpensive gift – a quick Google search will show you how it’s done. Other low-dollar stocking stuffers include glide wax, hand and boot warmers, energy bars or a gift certificate for a ski demo or even a wax and tune. Nothing says Do-It-Yourself love like buying a pouch, adding duct tape, bailing wire, binding screws, a lighter plus candle and a multi-tool and handing it to a loved one. You can add a flask of Irish whiskey to mine, please.

The outdoor industry is awash with products we both want and need and don’t need. Those non-skiing English rockers might just be right about not getting what you want but getting what you need. Prioritizing your needs can be made easier if you dig out last year’s calendar and check-out how your days were spent. If you didn’t whitewater kayak a single day, you might consider putting the play boat on Craigslist and putting that money towards the 40 days you spent backcountry and lift skiing. It’s always better to have newer bindings than you think you need. Many skiers make the mistake of remounting rusty relic binders on new boards and regret it when they blowup and have to make the walk-of-shame home.

It looks like a no-sale with the window-shopping couple, even after I imparted some of these gold-nugget ideas. As I remind them on their way out the door, there are shopping days left, but the snow is coming and a ski day trumps a shopping day, every time.

That’s What She Said - New Year’s Resolution Fodder From Mrs. Grumpy - January 2013

Ok, I’ve got issues. I know it, my so-called friends know it, the sales staff at the ski shop knows it and, most of all, Mrs. Grumpy knows it. Yes, there is actually a woman who is willing to share my house and company, despite my issues. She is solid on a pair of skis and also full of advice. I’ve decided to organize a list of her major nagging points with the hope that others can benefit from her wisdom without the noisy audio component that I must endure. Believe it or not, most of what she has to say holds value and, in an effort to honor the age-old New Year’s resolution ritual, I offer her suggestions for consideration as you look forward to the New Year.

1. Start wearing the ski helmet your Mom gave you last Christmas. I’ve always hated ski helmets, because I like the sound and feel of wind in my ears. Whether paying for the experience by purchasing lift tickets and carving up the groom or earning it by climbing to the top of my ski shots, the wind in my ears is part of the experience. Without using the obvious condom metaphor (oops just did), helmets reduce experiential pleasure. My well-worn joke has been that my brain isn’t a vital organ anyway, and I should wear a catcher’s cup instead. But, with the New Year, I’m going to strap on the brain bucket like I do my bike/rock/ kayak helmet and try not to take a tree for the team. But how can I rock the pink headband and grey skullet (a grey mullet, usually pulled back into a ponytail, with noticeable absence of hair on head top) on sunny spring days? I guess my loss is your gain.

2. Put sunscreen on your big ears (and that bald spot while you’re at it) before spring climbs. Duh, you’d think I’d do a better job of SPF coverage after 50-plus years of practice, but it gets hectic when I’m sorting gear and drinking that first beloved cup of coffee at the trailhead, especially at O-dark-30.

3. Drink a glass of water between après ski beers. The six packs of local malty goodness bestowed on me by grateful patrons for installing bindings, while they wait, are usually stuffed into the ancient blue cooler of the Grumpy-mobile for après ski rehydration. The banging headaches that plague my morning hours could be reduced by a water bottle and my resolution to use it.

4. Try stretching before skiing. For years, my pre-ski stretching routine consisted of bending over to buckle my boots. Father Time and Mrs. Grumpy have suggested that stretching prior to clicking-in will reduce my level of joint and muscle pain. Just because I used to be a Gumby in ski boots doesn’t mean I’ve stayed that way. Stretching down with that food baby in the way hasn’t gotten any easier, so I’m going to take a crack at stretching.

5. Don’t ski avalanche terrain when hazard is high. Years ago while skiing in the Austrian Arlberg I made some regrettable decisions that resulted in an avalanche ride that I was lucky enough to survive. It was a sunny, warm April day in Lech and at days-end our happy crew left the mountain-top bier stube and decided we could descend directly to our chalet down a sun-hammered bowl. Second turn in, I could tell the bottomless mung wasn’t stable. Hoping for the best isn’t a good avalanche avoidance strategy, but I hoped for a point release and a sluff that would clear a skiable path for the group and me. Instead, I got a fracture line above me that was as long as a Euro soccer field. A hard right turn out of the slide only resulted in getting pulled down into the accelerating river of slush. Like a wet kayak exit and the resulting swim, I bobbed on the surface thinking that this was a dumbass way to die. When I finally stopped in the depo zone, half-buried and grateful at that, all that hurt were some broken ribs and my ego. The big Austrian ski cop that helicoptered in and wrote me a $150 ticket for skiing in a closed-off area (I can’t read German signs was my lame excuse) said in a Schwarzenegger accent, “You are very lucky; you should party tonight.” I took his advice and told my concerned friends that we were under police orders to have a good time. But the whole embarrassing international incident (it made the local paper the next day) could have been avoided by just saying nein and schussing the tram line. As the new saying goes, sidecountry or slackcountry, it’s all backcountry.

6. Reduce your personal ski inventory before the season starts. Apparently ski quiver size doesn’t impress Mrs. Grumpy. Justifying to her the nuanced differences between ski models in my basement rack has become a fall ritual like leaf racking or gutter cleaning and it’s about as much fun. Selling her on the obvious fact that I need skis for skating, light touring/backcountry, telemark, alpine touring (one pair with 100cm+ waist for a foot or better of new snow and one pair with under 100cm waist for ski mountaineering) and a pair of heavy metal alpine speedsters should be a no-brainer but no, the one-ski-should-get-it-done-gal can’t seem to grasp the fact that variety is life. Don’t even get her started on the museum-quality historical collection that is in the garage attic - out of sight but not out of her mind. Of course, some of Mrs. Grumpy’s ideas are best left unheaded. I’m hoping, some sad day when global warming has erased winter, those Rossi 102’s from ’72 and the Head Comps from ’62 will fetch enough money for a Canadian helicopter hiking vacation.

Of course, there are a slew of archival Mrs. Grumpy one-liners:

“Smells like ski bum spirit in here … Can I add your Capilene to my load of colored wash?”

“My skis aren’t going to wax themselves.”

“Too bad they couldn’t reuse your season pass picture from the early nineties.”

“Could we dial up the temperature? There is a reason they call it a hot tub”

“Now is a good time for you to switch-over to coffee since you’re driving us back to town.”

“Your latest experiment with facial hair isn’t going to help in the romance department.”

“If we’re going to climb out of here before dark, I suggest you stop DJing your ipod.”

Ahhh….How can she be so perfect while I remain so flawed?

Mind the Gape - March 2013

The guy with the flap hat is reaching into the bed of a Ford pickup and grabbing an armful of nordic rental skis and poles. With gear akimbo, he waddles the short distance to the stickered-up ski shop doors. I’m heading to work, arriving on the late side of 10 a.m. I can tell from afar that Mr. Flap Hat is stymied by his next move. He can’t quite open the door and hold the arm load of nordic firewood at the same time. It’s time for me to be a super hero and get the door for this gaper. Without a mumbled word of thanks, he crab-walks sideways through the shop, knocking hats and gloves off racks with his arsenal of ski tips and pole handles. I follow him; picking up gear off the old carpet and restocking as I go. As I feared, there is nobody at the rental desk and I’m going to have to take one for the team and help this dude without first enjoying a needed cup of coffee. Mr. Flap Hat is stymied by his next move. He can’t quite open the door and hold the arm load of nordic firewood at the same time. It’s time for me to be a super hero and get the door for this gaper. Without a mumbled word of thanks, he crab-walks sideways through the shop, knocking hats and gloves off racks with his arsenal of ski tips and pole handles. I follow him; picking up gear off the old carpet and restocking as I go. As I feared, there is nobody at the rental desk and I’m going to have to take one for the team and help this dude without first enjoying a needed cup of coffee.

“It’s OK”, I sigh, “Just dump them on the floor.” When our valued customer finishes the off-load with a resounding clatter, I get his name and pull his rental form. He’s a day overdue and one pair of skis has shredded no-wax bases; it looks like they’ve been towed down the spring-time resort road with him clipped-in. By the way, I did the road tow once - I was in high school at the time - and I don’t recommend using your skis, or as I did, your dad’s, but the flying sparks are really a sight to see! When Mr. Flap Hat balks about losing some deposit dough to cover the base repair, a small pissing contest ensues. I concede my position knowing that name calling and a shoving match might jeopardize my already precarious employment. I let Mr. Flap Hat have his deposit back with a warning about skiing in the parking lot.

Gapers, beaters, strewns (a Utahism for skiers strewn about the slope), Joeys (New England slang for New Jersey skiers), Texas tuckers (Colorado speak), yard salers…the diss list is long, and my favorite ones have local resonance. The term “gape” is traditionally defined by Mr. Webster as: “to stare with open mouth, as in wonder.”. But our ski and snowboard (feel free to assume which category has a higher population of gapers) world has co-opted this verb for clueless bemusement, and we have changed it into the noun gaper referring to our slack-jawed brethren, and I’d humbly submit, sometimes ourselves. The definition of “gaper” in the on-line Urban Dictionary speaks a little closer to my point: Gaper: A skier or snowboarder that: 1. is not from anywhere near the resort 2. looks like an idiot on the mountain and takes gigantic turns on flat cat tracks 3. is totally oblivious to the fact that they look like an idiot and are skiing icy bumps directly under the lift when there is powder stashed all over mountain, or stashed in the trees right next to them.

Gaper is commonly pronounced gay-per but you might think, when reading the word, it could be pronounced gap-er as in, “He has goggle gap so he must be a gap-er”. Gay-per goggle gap is a trademark gaper affectation and makes gapers are easily recognizable in a lift or hot chocolate line. Again, quoting the Urban Dictionary: Gaper Gap: The large open space on the forehead of a gaper between the helmet (or hat) and goggles while skiing/riding. Also visible days after in the form of a sunburn or windburn on the forehead.

However, the Grumpy Old Shop Guy (GOSG), after some reflection on personal experience, offers a different definition: The oblivion gap between a gaper’s perceived reality and actual reality.

Despite how well any of us mind the gape, we all have our gaper moments; yes … even the coolest among us. Gaperness usually occurs when we are presented with new circumstances or surroundings and we are oblivious to the realities therein, thus resulting in a seminal gaper move. One of the GOSG’s all-time worst gaper moves occurred on Teton Pass, WY in the 1990’s where my buddy Dick (yeah that’s his real name) and I had been touring and doing car shuttle laps for the better part of a week. We were loving the shady grove, knee-deep shots above Black Canyon and were feeling pretty comfortable getting around. After a few après-ski brews, our knowledgeable and tolerant host, Jackson Hole Ted, recommended that we venture into the Mosquito Creek drainage the next day. Ted had to work, but he gave us the bro beta at closing time. It was 2ish p.m. the next afternoon and definitely a non-alpine start when we left Jackson and eased my old-man-van, up the hill of fabled Highway 22 and into the parking lot on Teton Pass. There were plenty of parking spots to be had as the locals had finished their dawn patrols hours ago and were at work in breweries and law offices by now. We skinned out the beaten-in ridge track to what we thought was the beer-stained ink mark on our topo map, and tried to remember the directions shouted to us over crowd noise at the Mangy Moose tavern the prior night. We ripped skins and dropped into what we also thought was the headwall of the Mosquito Creek drainage. We found, to our liking, crotch-tickling pow turns all the way to a creek. We continued skinning and dicing sweet open pokes until the Teton sun was getting low and our shadows long.

A gaper move can usually be traced back to a key decision mismade. Our late start, coupled with not knowing where we were, resulted in our wandering in the dark. Had we remembered our headlamps, we might have eventually found the trail back to the parking lot thereby avoiding the habitation of gaperdom. Alas, without lights or local knowledge, route finding became more and more difficult until we finally gave up in pitch blackness, dug a snow cave/pit/grave and hunkered down for a dreaded cold night out. We had to do jumping jacks and put our feet inside each other’s jackets to keep warm. It wasn’t Brokeback Mountain, but we did appreciate each other’s company.

When Team Gaper shuffled out to the road at dawn’s early light, Ted was waiting for us and ready to call the rescue team. Dick and I cranked the crappy heater in my VW van, made the drive of shame to Nora’s for a double breakfast, took very long and hot showers and slept for a couple days. Lest we forgot about our “cold night out” for the rest our stay in Jackson, the friendly local bartender and video store clerk reminded us by asking, “Hey, aren’t you Ted’s friends from Oregon who were up in Mosquito Creek …”

The shame of a gaper move can have a half-life of twenty or more years with your ski bum friends. Fortunately, few are immune to the occasional gaper move, so you best log the occasion just in case the moment is ripe for some recollection.

Ok, I think I’ve made my point. Now it’s time to go behind the shop and find the gaper that parked his Audi in front of the roll-up freight door before the UPS guy starts honking.

Taking The “Ice” Out of Service

The old guy that works on my dual-sport motorcycle is a customer service a-hole. He reliably greets me at the door of his junk show/residence/shop or the gate of his motorcycle museum/ junkyard with, “what do you want?” Even when my answer is, “to give you some money,” he scowls and limps-off, leaving me to follow his oil-saturated scent back into his dark warren of motorcycle paraphernalia. Dr. Moto (I’ll protect his real name even though he doesn’t ski or look at ski porn magazines like this one) seems to have no recollection of my prior visits or the business (money) I’ve given him over the years. But I keep returning because my Suzuki breaks and because his misanthropic interaction with customers is trumped by his fairness, honesty and top-drawer competence. He is quick and skilled with diagnostics, gained through years of racing and wrenching on every brand of motorbike ever made, and he never marks-up the parts that he sources. He prefers payment in cash and just rolls his eyes when rookies try to put down plastic. There is no denying Dr. Moto’s crusty charm but, maybe, he could paint a smiley face on his front-end demeanor.

The local restaurant/brew pub chain I frequent has great customer service. The help is always perky and probably stoned. “How’s it going bro?” is often the greeting I receive. I’m asked about my day and what they can get me. But, after all the back-slappy friendliness and the food and beverage slowly make its way to my table, it is nearly always wanting. The fries are predictably limp, the burger bun is freezing and, occasionally, it’s the wrong order altogether. Their proprietary beer is warm and soapy, the whiskey is a short pour and both beverages are priced above my dive bar expectations. Every hour is unhappy hour at these joints. You might be correctly thinking, smarten-up Shop Guy there are other watering holes in town. And there are. But it’s the beautifully restored old buildings and movie theaters of this chain where many of my less-picky friends like to meet, and I keep going back because they do just enough right on the front-end to keep me hopeful for the back-end.

My eventual, and ski shop related, point is: Front-end niceties aren’t worth squat if the final product is bunk. But balancing the seesaw of friendliness and competence is what counts, and that’s what I’m shooting for this ski season. I’m striving to put forward less of Dr. Moto’s front-end demeanor, while still delivering his level of backside service. Towards this goal, I’ve hunt-and-pecked some notes to self:

Go Big or Go Homey

It would be a big crevasse stretch for me to punch the clock for a big outdoor retail chain. If they were desperately seeking a curmudgeonly brand of service and were willing to overpay for it, I’d probably think of an irrational reason to forego the deal. My reluctance isn’t all just bitter, old-guy jealously of big brother and his crowded six-time yearly mega-sales. No, modern evidence suggests the ski business is consolidating and market conditions don’t favor the old ways or an old timer. The current age of prosperity for big-box retailers and mega-resorts must be acknowledged but, like a colonoscopy or roped-off terrain, it should be appreciated, not enjoyed.

A former employee and spritely kid who worked at our ski shop/ski bum rest stop is now employed by a large outdoor retail chain with a three letter acronym for a name. The other day, he rolled in and was perched up on the ski bench singing the blues about being kept on part-time hours and getting laid off at season’s end. He was a newbie rock star when he worked with me. That kid would do a rental return after closing time without even commenting on a customer’s foot odor. But now, he’s knocking over skis reaching for the out-of-tune shop guitar and fumbling around for an E-chord strumming the Shop Kid Blues:

“I heard this mornin’ that the big box is movin’ in

Ya, I heard it this mornin’, bro; the big box is movin’ in

Now I might be riding high this winter but come spring the slidin’ be thin”

The dirtbag baby boomer shop owners who started specialty shops in the 60’s and 70’s are pretty frosty headed now. Their camps are more likely pitched on wise real-estate investments than on sketchy bivys, and deservedly so. They’ve hung on through the party and the drought and famine. When their retail days are over and their kids don’t want the shop or the life that comes with it, Mom and Pop have to sell off inventory or sell out to buyers like Specialty Sports Venture. The “Wal-Mart effect” has changed the ski business landscape like a wet pineapple express on fresh powder. The buying power of a big chain is persuasive to vendors of skis, boots, wax and that fad called snowboarding. When a website or concrete box can offer a “no-questions-asked guarantee” and replace your hammered gear at no charge, they get return customers. But those same big boxes need a steady snowpack of profit margins and it’s reflection on their common stock, so they keep labor costs down, thus making my ski bum buddy sing the annoying Shop Kid Blues.

As a lazy teenager, I didn’t see the point in getting up at 5:30 a.m. on the weekends, but my Dad stood shouting “wake it and shake it” at the bottom of the stairs. He ski patrolled at the local hill and this lumbering out of bed every winter weekend at o-dark-hundred was rote in our house. My small Pacific Northwest town had a two-rope-tow ski hill on the mountainside above it. The steeper, much scarier side for my seven-year-old ski legs was called Jump Hill - named after the long dismantled, wickedly dangerous Nordic jump from the 1940’s. The Bunny Hill was the nursery for us future Jump Hillers. Times change and my humble hometown has grown up. Outside Magazine even put it on their “Best Outdoor Town” list one year. They said it use to be a depressed lumber town. All I know is that it was a time before anyone ever called clear-cuts resorts. The old hut, now referred to as the base lodge, had hot chocolate and a wood stove. Families crowded the tables and, to paraphrase Glen Plake, the mohawk-headed skier from another colorful era, ”it smelled like skiing”. Today, it smells more like the retail food biz ala a burger and fries.

Like all life in a small town, bad behavior gets noticed. Poor service at the grocery store or funeral home affects business immediately and takes years to repair. Same goes with the local ski shop and ski area. At my ski hill, the ice-crusted faces that said, “Yo, what’s up” to you one year were likely to be there the next season, too. Inevitably, they also reminded me of my rope-ducking and pass infractions from previous seasons. There was a sense of community – people looking out for each other. Our town had a small ski shop, and my Mom even worked there part time. Her employee discounts and access to new and used equipment kept my brother and me in reasonable gear. The shop sponsored ski races and costume days and gave a discount to ski club members. You could drive an hour to the big city for a better selection and sometimes price, but loyalty is a two-way trail and most people supported the local shop because it supported them. Just like the friendly ski hill, going to the ski shop was being part of the community.

Sentimental nostalgia aside, the community feeling that locally-owned ski shops and ski resorts foster isn’t just an old-timey way of doing business. It’s the foundation to the ski industry. The two-way trail of shop/resort loyalty and customer support benefits us all. I’m under no grand illusion that we can compete with the three-letter acronym shops, the big dotcoms or the real-estate holdings of the mega-resorts, but the proliferation of the shop local, eat local, grow local phenomena that’s so pervasive in the Norhwest culture these days has me hoping that there are still people who appreciate the knowledge and experience of a seasoned shop curmudgeon like myself and a sincere smile or some friendly fingerpointing at the ski hill. Sure, the sport we love now has a transient nature and a roving crowd of tourists and transplants that I don’t recognize in the shop or at the bar. But here’s to hoping for an appreciation for the roots and culture that started it all.

The Good, The Bad and The Wobbly

The Bad: Let the Grumpiness Begin

Post holing: It’s never good busting a binding at the bottom of a powder shot and limping back to the hut or car via the dreaded post hole dance. It’s almost as bad when some unknowing gaper post holes up a perfectly good uptrack, and you’re that guy.

Flat light: Like Gloria Leonard said: “The difference between pornography and eroticism is lighting.” Lighting can make or break a ski day. Faceplant, lawn dart, you name it; flat light gets us all. I was traveling around the world (literally, it wasn’t just a beer flight deal) and, while trying to climb a socked-in peak in New Zealand, I took my glacier glasses off way too many times and ended up snow-blind. Flat light on the mountain = Bud Lite in the bar, because sometimes it’s not worth the risk.

Tightwad telemarkers: Brother, could you upgrade and stop whining? Since you’re not spending money on a beard trimmer or soap, you might as well spring for a new piece of gear every season or three and dial down the noise that your gear isn’t working. I’ve done some time in the Kingdom-of-the-Bent-Knee and wish I had rethought my blurry equipment priorities.

Snowshoes: I’m not trying to be elitist but, come on, snowshoes in the uptrack are only one step better than dog shit.

Snowboarder campouts in my line: Feeling my groove and rolling over a sweet pillow only to find some brethren of the glisse camped in my line, smoking Camel lights and babbling bro-bonics, kills my buzz.

The Shortlist:

Not extending Happy Hour: How about a few minutes, for locals.

Maps without reading glasses: Did I miss the turn?

Wind chimes on the hippie neighbor’s front porch on Saturday morning after a Friday night apres-ski went too long.

The Good: Reasons to Stay on Life Support

Ski rocker: What’s not to like? The early rise technology keeps you having fun way past your pull date. Like this Santa Claus looking dude on a Wasatch tour once told me, “Kid, it’s great to be an old skier these days; we’ve got hip replacements, wide skis with rocker and Viagra, so stop the belly aching.” Tip rocker makes unruly snowconditions tolerable and trail breaking a breeze.

Fresh ski porn: Same old thrill with new story lines … Valhalla, McConkey, even the new Warren Miller are all worthy fodder for some couch turns.

Carbon fiber poles: Don’t lend these bad boys out or treat them like that partner you should have treated better. Because when you’re swinging them through white smoke all day, maestro, you’ll understand.

Tech bindings: Dynafit pioneered it and others have followed. The uninitiated may balk, but once you’ve skied the light, you don’t go back.

Three antennae/digital beacon technology: Thanks to brainy skiers applying themselves, we now have beacons that even a ski bum can operate with relative ease. It’s no reason to act foolishly in the hills, but modern beacons offer an extra piece of mind when skiing the back of beyond.

Coffee: Coffee is gooood. There, I said it. But I can quit anytime.

Shortlist:

Skiing with kids: It’s never boring.

Avalanche floatation packs: Hook a brother up!

“Special” employee deals: see above

BC road trips: The goods are there somewhere, eh?

The Wobbly: It Can Go Either Way on You

Pacific low pressures systems: In the Cascade Mountains, the oft-anticipated low pressure blob headed your way can go either way. It can deliver a beautiful Alaskan Eskimo kiss or a wet Hawaiian gut punch. Keep your fingers crossed.

Dogs on a tour: The ski partner you met at the party last night seems accommodating enough but her/his dog might be a problem. I’ve skied with plenty of dogs; some work out and some don’t. I understand taking your pooch for a walk in the woods, but let’s keep the uptrack white and, Rover, try to stay out of my line, please.

POV cameras: Yeah, admittedly, I enjoy the occasional helmet cam footage, but the need to document every fricking action sports moment is more than a bit nauseating most of the time, and it’s not just the motion sickness.

Utah ski vacations: The greatest snow on earth doesn’t always show up when you do. There might be 200 inches of snow in Red Pine Canyon, but there are 300-inch rocks.

Shortlist:

Pond skim parties: Lost bikini tops vs. minor concussions

Ski helmets: Wind in the hair (or bald spot) vs. ER bill

Left-over pizza as your ski tour lunch: Dominos vs. Artisian

The house guitar: Martin vs. Matel

Down a Creek (a story of love, hate and respect)

Anywhere there are mountains, there are creeks. Creeks are as natural as parking spaces in strip malls. Creeks run downhill, from mountains, and are a feature of the alpine landscape that play, obviously, into cross-country navigation. Creeks can range from an easily fordable, burbling, inconvenience to a life threatening death swim, depending on many factors. As you might expect, Ol’ Grumpy has a few stories to support this hard-earned evidence, and it’s probably a stretched metaphor that life has inconvenient gaps that often require a difficult crossing.

Working as a nordic ski instructor, at a Pacific Northwest ski area (before they got all resort about it) in the 80’s, I had a creek drama that perked-up the painful tedium of taking suburbanites on snowy nature walks. I worked the mid-week “ladies day tours” although it was open to men that were men enough to handle the label. The buses rolled in around 10 am and we would weed-out the nord lessons, from the lift riding, one-piece suits, and depart for our tour de jour. 

The relevant tour, for this story, was up White River canyon, which was usually a predictable slog up a mellow glacier-cut valley. I traded-off “dog” duty with, my co-leader, Tammy. We would either lead the hobbling line of suburbanites, or bark like dogs from the rear until the herd stopped for lunch. The shared, Sunset magazine- inspired lunch fare was always delicious, and we fended-off the camp robbing jaybirds, exchanged gossip and avoided politics. Maybe a plucky Gewurztraminer was opened, can’t remember that part. But, I do know on the way back down the canyon, shit got real when one of the gals couldn't pull a hockey stop before skidding into White River. It was easily a five foot digger down the steep bank, and Tammy and I were on the hook for retrieving this gal from the hypothermic thigh-deep stream. The other tourers were understandably freaked-out. Tammy peels-off ski togs to bra and panties, and says she’s going in. I’m impressed and play along, pull some moldy 7 mm Perlon line out of my daypack, and tied a quick bowline on her pale waist. Our brave gal grabs the handwaving, frantic madam, drags her to a snow bank, and our crew hoists them both up the bank. Tragedy was averted, the lady didn’t sue, and a bond of respect was welded with a co-worker. The creek was a prop, not the villain, in this drama but everyone learned a lesson from it and it garnered our respect.

Hiking up the Matukituki river valley, in New Zealand’s southern alps, hopping from bank to bank, blue skies above, smell of sheep in the air, we had no clue that this “creek” would flood into a raging brown drain pipe of death after a 3 day storm. My buddy, Jeff, and I were on a mountaineering trip after a, relatively lucrative, summer of work in the woods and mills. We were aspiring to climb Mt. Aspiring and after being pushed off the route by a Tasmainian Sea devil of a storm we squirreled-up in the French Ridge hut, soaked and snow blind. The shallow, babbling Matukituki river was now a frisky torrent, and the forecast was for even more rain, so we needed to get across or be stuck on the wrong side for another week or more. With a heavy mountaineering pack on, and the current pushing me down, I took a panicky swim to the far bank. Dragging myself up the rocks, onto muddy ground I think I might have given it a kiss of thanks. Jeff had a similar bad experience, and we ate a cold dinner and failed to sleep in wet down sleeping bags that night, but were very happy to be alive. That bad swim was the capper on a crappy misadventure, and it’s funny how bad memories remain vivid after all these years while happy times fade.

The rental customer, shuffling through the stickered-up ski shop door, holding a broken ski, usually prefaces their explanation with “i was just skiing along when…” And after you’ve heard enough of these sorrowful spiels, and tried to avoid an eye roll, you might suspect a creek had something to do with this breakage. Light touring gear is light because tough=heavy material is intuitionally left out. A novice skier; say a 220 pound dude on a fitness outing, can break a touring ski like a shingle when a creek is involved. Most times you suck up the rental deposit, give a short scolding about diligent behavior, and hope the manufacturer might warranty the wreckage. Sometimes you might be even be the guy that is “just skiing along” when a creek decides to snare you, and break some needed equipment. Skiing an epic powder shot, on a hut trip in the Kokanee Mts. of BC, Canada, I had the good fortune of farming some deep powder, face shots from a creek depression. It was a perfect pipeline of bliss until the creek decided I was having too much fun. The inevitable misfortune of stuffing a ski in this creek’s depression, at the bottom of that shot, was consequential. My releasable tele binding release broke, and a bailing wire/duct tape job luckily kept me from postholing all the way back up that 1000 ft of vertical to the hut. 

Creeks demand respect. I broke an ankle, falling down a mossy creek waterfall three years ago, on a search and rescue mission. My ankle tingles, to this day, when a creek crossing is encountered. Now, I use that pain as an early warning device, and hopefully a reminder to a slow-learner, that creeks get the respect they deserve.

I have a long and checkered past with the Outdoor Retailer (OR) Winter Market show in Salt Lake City, Utah. The show used to be held in Reno, Nevada, which is more my kind of town. Regardless, this annual bazaar for retail buyers, media hacks, corporate suits, sponsored athletes and hanger-oners is held at the Salt Palace Convention Center in downtown Salt Lake.

The venue should be renamed the Jumbo Spice Rack Palace because of the ever-increasing expanse of brightly colored outdoor play toys. The only soulful upside to the whole OR junk show is the backslappy rendezvous for me and my old friends. Each night finds us hunkered around tables, glass in hand, loosely recounting past adventures and bemoaning the annoyances of the present state of the industry and our sore knees from walking the OR aisles all day. We are mostly older, grey muzzled seals looking out to sea and barking at the changing tide.

My crusty and questionably insightful take on the OR show this year is that backcountry ski gear is getting lighter, more complicated and more expensive. The on-snow demo, held at Solitude Resort this year, featured some bullet-proof snow, which might be nice for looking at top-sheets, but it’s a less-than-stellar medium for testing wide modern powder skis. Despite the conditions, the shiny gear was the best-ever for the age-old task of climbing up and skiing down mountains. Boots, bindings and skis are lighter and more capable than ever.

That said, there are also more choices than ever. Outdoor and ski companies are well known for growing their herd (gear offerings). And, if the aforementioned herd actually yields milk, they rarely thin the cows - unless bankruptcy looms. The thinking seems to be: “If three snow shovels in the line are good, then six are better.” I call it the doubling effect, and it leads to an obscene amount of crap … and aisle after colorful aisle of excess.

If a time machine were readily available, I’d fire it up and bring one of those gold miner skiers from 1856 California to the OR show for some contrast and perspective. Standing there with 10-foot-tall wooden skis and sturdy single pole, skiers like Snowshoe Thompson would cut a fine figure and offer a lively contrast to the colorful excess that is OR. For those unfamiliar with the legend of John A. “Snowshoe” Thompson, he was a Norwegian emigrant, and Sierra skiing mailman. To clarify his name and not sully his reputation, he was a skier not a snowshoer. Two to four times a month, for twenty winters, regardless of weather, Snowshoe Thompson set out skiing from Placerville, California to Genoa, Nevada (where his statue now resides) and, usually, returned five days later.

For this 80-mile journey, Snowshoe Thompson wore a Mackinaw jacket (dense, water-repellent wool for you youngsters), a wide brimmed hat and covered his face in charcoal to prevent sunburns and snow blindness. He didn’t carry a blanket, but he did carry matches to start fires and a bible for spiritual inspiration and sometimes toilet paper. He snacked on dried sausage, jerked beef, crackers and biscuits. When a storm kept him from proceeding he would find a flat rock, clear it of snow, and dance old Norwegian folk dances until the weather cleared. I had the unfortunate nonluck of spending a cold night out on Teton Pass years ago, and I can attest that dancing around is a good idea if the weather is mild but snow caves are better for getting out of the wind and shivering through a blizzard, as I learned in Boy Scouts and have mostly avoided since. Now, I prefer motels with a minibar and free cable TV.

Sorry for the historical digression. This column is supposed to have an opinionated viewpoint. Therefore, if Snowshoe Thompson represents minimalism and modern outdoor companies favor maximalism, I consider the job of outdoor retailers to be that of de facto gatekeepers between the two extremes. Gatekeepers should practice consequentialism or the theory that buying decisions should be made on the basis of the expected outcome or consequences of the action. Sales volume becomes the gate through which a product must successfully pass. Or, to lay it out simple for snowboarders: sell it or smell it.

Let me elaborate: Retail gatekeeping, like gatekeeping in alpine ski racing, is an underrated and important job. In ski racing, the task requires paying attention, staying warm and documenting which racer skis through the designated gates and which racer does not. It’s also beneficial if gatekeepers can yell, “get off the f-ing course,” really loud at errant gapers who wander into the roped-off zone.

Ski shop gatekeeping is similar. Gatekeepers choose, from a Salt Palace of product, what occupies the rack and what does not and take note of what sells. As monitors of the stock, gatekeepers play a pivotal role in the natural selection of equipment. Just like on the race course, it’s important for the gatekeeper to speak up to the companies when he sees errant products making their way into the sales line-up. Just like the gaper who wanders onto a course, poorly thought out product only clouds the scene. Slow sales of a particular product one season likely mean its demise the next season. It’s a complex matrix that a gatekeeper weaves when considering what to order for his shop. Online outlets haven’t made the selection job any easier, but it has made selling off losers more convenient. This season, for example, when we have a low snow year on the West Coast, we will be offering some deep discounts on deep powder skis complete with free shipping. But the weather is a whole different gatekeeping story. My point here is that we’ve got better backcountry ski gear than ever and just because having one model in the line is good, does not always mean that having two, three or four is better.

Next winter, I’m thinking of going to the ISPO show in Munich, Germany, where the junk show is even larger than OR and there are legendary free beer steins served by ski racing super models – not to mention mockery of Europeans is an easy target.

Summer sucks, have a good one.