By Mark D. Miller
I can honestly say that I thought each one would work out. My intentions were always good and out of respect, I will not mention any names here. I place a lot, if not all, of the blame on myself. I want perfection. I am not talking about looks and curves either, (though a 7 or above is mandatory in both categories), but more on how we handle different situations together. I know that may sound egotistical, self-centered, narcissistic, but they would be my second half. And in most cases, I was just splitting hairs, because some of them were truly amazing.
In hindsight, I would not have changed a thing. The memories, experiences and great times will always be a part of me and who I am. I can still recall bringing each home for the first time. Almost ritualistically, I would lay them down on the carpet in my bedroom and with bare feet, gently press my full body weight onto them over and over again. But later, I would always find imperfections: too high maintenance; not stable; does not rip through thick crud; floats good, but not great in powder. And with any perceived chink in the armor, I would sell my skis and buy another pair.
This past year though, after 20 years of telemark skiing, I was gradually switching back to alpine skiing. I started searching for my perfect pair of alpine skis. My criteria was simple: they must be fast and stable, ready to dice quick shorts turns at the top of steep hard-packed chutes and then stay unflappable in high speed GS turns in the open bowls; they should be light enough for back and side country touring, while sturdy enough for laps off of any western tram; they should power through crud, mank and chop like a vita mixer, be a blast on the groomers and above all else, in untracked powder, they must turn me into a super hero. Oh yeah, they have to be at a great deal too.
Looking back, I can see that quitting my job was the overriding catalyst to my behavior over the next several months while I searched for the perfect pair of alpine skis. I had been making a decent salary with great benefits, but I was miserable. Our second child was on the way and I had become very nervous about our finical situation. And when I get really nervous, buying ski gear is the only thing that seems to calm me.
I had started working for my wife’s landscaping company, so I had the whole winter to search for alpine boots, bindings and skis. In December I took the first step and bought a used pair of alpine touring boots. I could then borrow friends’ skis until I found what I wanted. In January, I randomly bought a light plastic pair of telemark boots for light touring in the backcountry, soothing some stress. By March, knowing great deals would start popping up, I was on craigslist every day searching for more gear and reading reviews nonstop.
My chosen category of skis, All-Mountain, seemed to have sub categories in itself, emphasizing powder, park, hard-pack, and side country to name a few. Of these, I would have to choose from traditional camber, early rise tip with traditional camber underfoot; rockered tip and tail with traditional camber underfoot, rockered tip and tail flat underfoot or fully rockered. It seems I would also have to know the percentages of the terrain I typically skied. A complicated algorithm gave me the results: 32% leftover or cut-up powder; 23% untracked powder; 17% groomed or firm, carvey snow; 10% cream cheese; 8% corn; 4% ice; and 1% for breakable crust, glop, styrofoam or groppel.
In April our landscaping money was starting to dwindle. My nerves were on edge. I put them at ease by snatching up a great deal on a pair of skis that seemed to fit my percentages. They had normal alpine binding on them, so they did not work with the thick, rubber soles of my Alpine Touring boots. I bought a pair of normal alpine boots instead of renting boots to test out the new skis during the last week of the season. I knew I could sell the skis along with the boots for a small profit at the fall ski swap, which is essentially black Friday for skiers, if I did not like them. I remember thinking I was on to something. These were investments. I could turn a 20% profit margin off ski gear by buying off season and selling in season.
It turned out that I loved the skis. Now I needed alpine touring binding. So logically, I bought a barely used pair of demo skis with AT binding on them at an end of the season blowout sale. I planed on pulling the bindings off and then selling the skis, essentially getting the bindings for about 60% off their retail value. I am not really a stock market guy, but had heard the term diverse portfolio and felt that’s exactly what I was building up. I debated on buying more blowouts deals and selling them for profit in the winter, but we still had a handful of mortgage payments before our landscaping business started bringing in money again. Plus, my wife did not see the diverseness of the portfolio until in late May and out of complete guilt, I bought her a brand new pair of fancy early rise tip and tail skis. It was such a good deal we could not afford to pass them up. We were saving a ton of money, I proudly thought, all thanks to me.
In June, I was still searching craigslist out of habit when I saw a similar pair of lightweight telemark boots for sale at a fraction of what I had paid. They were slightly broken in the cuff, but fine for my needs. I went to the guys’ house and bought them without telling my wife, a big no-no in my house. But I planned on selling the other pair for $25 more than I paid. All profit, I keep thinking to myself.
In July, I thought I was done buying ski gear; the landscaping was going good and my nervousness had subsided, but, as it turns out, I had truly become a monster. A good friend approached me. He was selling a pair of his powder skis that I had borrowed many times over the winter and wanted to give me first dibs since I loved them so much. He wanted a sparsely $250 bucks for the skis, AT bindings and skins. I will take them, I said immediately, knowing this would push me into the quiver category for the first time in my life and possibly to the sleeping on the couch category. For me, it would strictly be a powder ski and there was only one way to justify the purchase; they turned me into a young Clark Kent in deep snow. Just don’t say anything about it to my wife, I begged.
As summer bled into fall, my conscience began getting the best of me. A hoard of ski gear was hidden in a downstairs closet and at times it seemed as if I could hear a giant heart beating loudly from the closet when my wife was nearby. Finally, I had to come clean. I called her to the closet and confessed. She was not mad. She knew she had married a ski bum and she was never shocked about me and things involving skiing. She just wanted to know how we could afford a ski pass with such a diverse portfolio.
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Mark Miller gets the goods on his new boards at an undisclosed spot in the Montana backcountry.
