Yes, You're Right: Skiers Are Masochists

My hackles were raised from the start. “People who ski have more money than sense,” the op-ed’s headline declared.

I felt a flash of anger and, like a particularly stupid fish, was lured right in, giving The Guardian the click it was after. They’d found their mark. After all, the article assaulted almost every part of a sport that’s consumed my life. I couldn’t help but be offended. 

Each paragraph made me squint.

“You pay thousands for the privilege of spending a week queueing in the cold, slightly terrified, while someone in a fluorescent jacket shouts at you in French,” read one.

“People insist [skiing] is magical in the same way they insist that cold-water swimming is ‘transformative’ or small plates are ‘better for sharing,’” read another. “At some point we forgot to ask whether any of this is actually true.”

Actually true? They just didn’t get it. The comparison to “small plates” was also uncalled for.

The counterarguments formed immediately in my mind. Buy the right pass, choose the right mountain, and say no to the third glass of champagne—skiing isn’t cheap, but it doesn’t have to cost a fortune. The cold problem can be dealt with by wearing adequate layers, and, quite frankly, I like the way French sounds, no matter how loud it’s shouted at me. When the author wrote that they’d only been skiing once, I was ready to throw the entire article away.

But as I pushed ahead, I began to see myself again and again. My stance softened. The author, in many ways, was spot on, effectively lampooning the ridiculous aspects of skiing, like the unnecessary injuries.

“Every skier I know has returned home with some kind of snapped ligament or mysterious knee problem they now refer to as ‘something I picked up in Val d’Isère,’” they wrote.

I’ve never been to Val d’Isère. Still, the bulbous heel spurs on my feet sprouted somewhere in the mountains—I can thank tiny ski boots for that. Then, there’s the persistent pain in my back, which, most likely, is related to my 16-year-old self throwing himself off cliffs with non-existent landings.

The author’s description of après was particularly apt. They called it “a collection of the loudest, most exhausting people you will ever meet,” set to a “particularly vile EDM-Ibiza pop beat” soundtrack. While I wouldn’t call my friends exhausting, trying to talk to any of us on a packed ski resort patio might be.

By the end of the article, I was ready to admit it: skiing is absurd, and skiing is a money pit. Anyone who willingly sits in traffic for hours only to risk life, limb, and financial security is a masochist.

They’re hopeless romantics, too, though. After decades spent weaving down mountain highways after dark, I can’t say I’ve wasted a minute of my time. Without skiing, I might be missing a lifelong friend or three. Without skiing, I may not have found a persistent love for the outdoors. Without skiing, my memory bank would have a lot less joy. 

Plus, the bad parts aren’t so bad, at least in hindsight. Spectacular crashes aren't fun. The bro at the bar, drooling over his umpteenth White Claw as he tries to convince you that he skied Corbet’s Couloir backwards, isn’t, either. However, both will make a good story someday.

It helps that all the mayhem is wrapped around one of the best, purest highs on Earth. When the trees open up, and you spy that untouched mound of snow, cutting through it makes everything else melt away.

So, yes, you’re right, we’ve lost our minds. We also put up with truckloads of crap that would make a beachside tourist turn up their nose. But our willingness to do so says more about skiing's magnetism than all of the drudgery that comes with it.