It’s November, and that means ski season is almost upon us! And what can be more blissful than surrendering to the mind's desire to obsess about skiing in all its forms? What could be a more productive use of time than endlessly Googling “best ski resorts Italy,” or checking out Kjus’s newest $800 jacket and convincing yourself there’s no better way to show up in a lift line than in an $800 Norwegian jacket? Skiing is the ultimate gear sport, and hot damn I love gear. Amassing the gear is surely responsible for at least of the reason I’ve never contented myself with just skiing. "Skiing" to most means alpine skiing (aka downhill skiing, or even "resort" skiing--the vernacular rivals the gear for complexity). Making weekly pilgrimages to the resort slopes helps keep my wallet light and ensures REI is never in danger of insolvency. But I refuse to merely ski alpine. My first winter love is actually Nordic skiing (or "cross-county skiing", aka XC skiing, or really just "skiing" to any pre-20th century Scandinavian who happened to strap wooden boards to their feet and set about moving on the snow), and this way of winter locomotion remains my most reliable winter obsession. XC skiing is truly magical--a harmonious blend of athletic and mediative movement--and once the weather turns chilly each year, I start dreaming full-time of being on the trail. I’ve recently added telemark skiing to the winter sports mix, and the idiosyncrasies and deeply contrarian culture of that sport warrant a separate essay.
Biathlon (cross-country ski racing, with brief stops to shoot a .22 rifle) is my other favorite winter sport, though for now I exist in that world only as a spectator. And following the sport of biathlon is an endeavor itself, by the way, often requiring an expensive subscription to Eurosport TV and a family willing to be dragged on an even more expensive trip to a place like Slovakia or Estonia. Backcountry skiing so far eludes me, but its day will come. Skiing of course is a gateway drug to the rest of the panoply of winter sport. I used to play ice hockey and follow the NHL closely, and after a decade hiatus and inspired by my sons, it has returned to my life. Welcome back, hockey! Ice skating, tobogganing, snowshoeing—I love it all. Luge, curling, heck, even ice dancing—I’d give 'em all a try. How does the word “luge” not conjure up images of romantic, snow-covered towns like Innsbruck, Lillehammer, and Cortina? The town names themselves set the heart a flutter. Yes, every November the mental and physical activities of the winter season begin in earnest--the armchair travel planning, the dusting off of old ski gear for sale down at the swap, the morning squat routine to ready the legs, the clandestine hop over to Berg's Ski Shop for some new form of specialized mountain eyewear before my wife catches on. Oh boy, winter is coming, it's practically here!
So what could there possibly be to dislike about fall? Well, November is also the season of that thing. The obnoxious, the grating, the lousy, the abominable LEAF BLOWER! All the joy that arises in the anticipation of ski season is blotted out by that single-worst creation in human history as the leaf blower comes to life this time of year. (Nuclear weapons were indeed included in my consideration of this accurate use of the superlative.) Scourge of the environmentalist, late sleeper, and squirrel alike, that compound word which can only be modified further with the adjective “fucking”, the leaf blower threatens all that is wonderful and glorious about this time of year. It isn't merely that it is loud and a nuisance, it is the complete and total lack of its necessity. A bellowing, gas-powered machine employed to (poorly) move leaves around?! Sure, the neighbor firing up his table saw every Saturday also makes plenty of noise, but at least he is making something! The leaf blower is no more than a loudmouth, lazy rake--one that shouts in your ear, rattles your windows, and sends your mulch and missing whiffle balls flying into the street. It's so utterly unnecessary, and almost seems to signal with its scream how aware it is of this fact. Forget the inventions of TikTok or Economy Class seating; the leaf blower single-handedly negates the notion that technology equates to progress. It’s not only the worst thing about November; leaf blower season is the worst thing about the calendar itself. Just as the dawn of ski season is warming my heart faster than a mug of mulled wine, its arrival threatens to crush my soul. Hunched over the iPad peering at Hestra’s updated split-finger glove lineup, or thumbing through my new $75 book on Bernese Oberland cabin design, once I hear that familiar scream--wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen--my seasonal bliss is shattered.
My heaven is a cold and snowy mountain town, with an ice rink, ample side-country valleys to explore, groomed XC tracks between home and the nearest Stube serving hot Glühwein, and not one single maple, oak, elm, birch, ash, poplar, walnut, or any other damn deciduous tree in sight.
