We’ve probably never met, at least not in real life. But if you expect a feel-good editorial on how we don’t know each other but do metaphorically—because every day we set foot on a mountain or let our eyes fall upon these pages we’re united as skiers—forget it. I wouldn’t do something that retarded.
As official dude-in-charge of a ski magazine, I am responsible for knowing my reader. And according to market research, you, ladies and gentlemen, are a very fickle bunch with varied backgrounds and tastes. A strange beast and difficult to please. This is what the data says. The problem is I have never actually seen the data… until now.
This year, in the interest of drumming up more, um, ‘interest’ in our contests, we posted an online form for readers to fill out (we’ll make extra money by selling your personal info to Publishers Clearing House and online “nude-modeling” agencies). The results flooded in and have largely been predictable: you are either male or female, young or old; those of you who love big-mountain skiers love big-mountain movies and big-mountain skis; those who cite rail skiers as their favourite athlete use short skis from indie ski brands. One thing, however, was not as predicted, and I now know your dirty little secret—the majority of you live in a city. Vancouver, Calgary, Montreal, Halifax, Edmonton, Saskatoon and, of course, Toronto.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised.
A couple years ago I, too, moved to The Centre of the Universe from a ski town to take a very welcome seat at the helm of this magazine. The opportunity to be part of this upstart’s legacy was undeniably attractive, even if it meant leaving the promised land of Canada’s west. As a result, I’ve become something I never thought I could: a city-dweller.
It’s not all bad. I’m addicted to certain elements of this grey monstrosity: omnipresent music, diverse restaurants, and the varied rich cultures that permeate its odorous streets; all have become a part of me despite my fear of becoming “one of them.” Beyond any of these considerations, however, I miss my ski town.
I miss the way winter rolls in on waves of alabaster powder, smothering the autumn landscape. I miss the sudden influx of rookie ski bums and the eternal stoke they bring, filling October bars and coffee shops with questions about how to find a closet to sleep in, a job with little commitment and, most importantly, the best skiing. I miss the feeling of an entire community welcoming winter with open arms, happy to greet the season that validates the town’s existence. It’s a culture of its own, with its own music, language and a singular focus most city dwellers don’t experience with their tickle-trunk of endless choices.
I suppose that’s why you, dear reader, with your big-city origins, end up every weekend in tiny ski towns like the one I will return to live in, trying to capture the feeling that those lucky enough to live there experience each day. And as different as you may be, in lifestyle, culture, or financial fortitude, you and I will still be honing in on the same wonderful target.
And in that way, we do know each other. Did I say that? – Mike Berard
Originally published in SBC SKIER magazine.
