On a powder day…

By Ben Olson
Reader Staff

On a powder day, nothing else really matters.

It’s midweek and there are about five inches of fresh snow on the ground. The sun pokes through the ethereal haze of the alpine morning. A slow caravan of vehicles with ski racks navigates the switchbacks up to Schweitzer, drivers tapping the wheel with nervous energy for the day ahead.

Nearing the roundabout, you can almost hear the collective gasps as the ski hill finally looms into view. It’s a bluebird powder day with perfect visibility. 

Is there anything better in the world?

Cadie Archer rides down Big Blue at Schweitzer on Feb. 9. Photo by Ben Olson.

A jaunt up Heart Attack Hill brings you to the village, where early morning skiers and boarders begin to queue behind the chairlift heading up to South Bowl, which opens earlier than the quad leading to the summit and the backside of the mountain.

Those early enough stand in line ready to take the first chair up the mountain — a distinct honor that becomes harder to achieve as our once-quaint ski hill becomes more and more known in the world.

It’s 20 minutes to 9 a.m., and now you really see the line take shape. Everyone sways back and forth, stretching their legs, talking idly with other locals in line; until, out of the clear blue morning, a bell rings. The opening bell — one of the most beautiful sounds in the world on a bluebird powder morning.

Those in line let out a cheer and surge forward, patient but restless, ready to enter the alpine world where we’d all die of exposure after a few hours without our protective ski gear. The chairs fill and move people up the mountain until, off to the right, you spy the first person barreling down the mountain, carving a clean, untouched line of tracks down J.R. or Headwall. The ones who didn’t get up early enough cheer them on from the chairlift. The saying goes, “There are no friends on powder days”; but, conversely, everyone is friends on a powder day.

Later, after the tracks have filled in the mountain, the hardy ones begin hiking up to Big Blue for a late hit. Not many people make the trek up there, but anyone who does is greeted with a stunning view of the lake, Schweitzer and the valley below. But, most importantly, an enormous face run that often only has a few tracks on it.

After a half-hour of huffing and puffing up the steep incline, standing at the edge of the run, you realize that nothing really matters. The legion of angry white men hellbent on destroying the world fades into the background. The argument you had with your kids; the fender bender last week that left your bumper in the ditch; the neighbor’s dogs, which haven’t stopped barking in years — all of it is trivial when you launch into a powder run.

It’s something pure, undefined and so damn fun. It’s the closest we’ll come to flying, and the furthest we’ll get from the ugliness of the world.

Afterward, as we reminisce about our perfect turns over beers, we are reminded why we live here; why we do the things that are hard; why we stay sane in this ever-maddening world.

On a powder day, the world makes sense again. For those few minutes, all is well. There’s no better feeling in the world for a powderhound.

Cheers to the good stuff and to those who seek it out. To hell with all the rest — at least until the run is over.