-Percy Shelley
Fall in Southern California seems to have a dual affect on the mind of its admirers and detractors alike. Somehow we all begin to long for the colder weather and make pilgrimages to the scarce areas where leaves actually show some color, but we absolutely forget that temperatures reach the triple digits. In retail, I always face the struggle of apologizing to the customer looking for shorts and a kayak paddle when we are stocked to the gills with 800 fill down and gore-tex jackets. I‘d say it’s a safe assumption that Fall has a strong tradition of forgetfulness commensurate with our longing for a change. Yet, once it finally comes, the change isn’t all about the weather. The shorter days seem to lend themselves to pensive thought and more time spent with family and good friends. The holidays come around like an absolutely random, yet well-timed text from a good friend we’ve forgotten we wanted to hear from for a long time.
Aside from all the rapture of change in the air, and a focus on holidays with those that matter most, I get a strong sense of wanderlust and look up to the mountains. In SoCal, this means ice-snow…perhaps I’ll use poetic license here and call it “snice.” But even a light dusting of snow in the local mountains seems to precipitate a rash of accidents as people strain their necks to keep them in focus while driving down the freeway. The most miniscule amount of snow, seen or perceived from an Iphone snow report, incites grand schemes of all-night drives out to the better mountains in the north or out of state; it makes me dream of the thigh deep powder runs under bluebird skies that I’ve never once experienced outside of the space between my ears. Most importantly, though, all these musings include being out on the slopes with good friends and sharing our great runs afterwards with a great brew. The snow can’t come soon enough, and I’ve already dusted off my board and plan on having it tuned and waxed before even our grungiest local hill opens the lifts (read- Mountain High).
What becomes sincerely ironic for me is that this conception of the mountains, with their thin air, sublime nature and quietness that often can hurt the ears has become a marketing tool in itself. We often romanticize a long weekend at a cabin in Tahoe or Mammoth with dreams of perfect runs and nightly Bacchanalian booze- fests that might even include Speedos and a hot tube time machine…you get the picture. There’s such disparity between the opening quote I selected from Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” and the image we are sold, that we buy, and that I myself am culpable of selling on a daily basis. I intended to highlight this with the quote and the image from Arbor (a company for which I harbor shameless enthusiasm). I’m absolutely stoked for my first runs of the season now that I’m getting my edge control down and starting to carve hard on my board, but I wonder how much of this is authentic experience, of if it even needs to be- even a day at the local resorts leaves me recharged and ready to face the messy gig of prosaic weeks in the city.
The irony of the snow industry clap-trap versus the romanticized conception of human experience in the mountains really doesn’t vex me all that much, it lasts about as long as it takes me to get off the lift and headed down a run. Both are authentic and flagrant imposters at the same time. I realize that most of the gear that goes out the doors at any big-box, specialty mom and pop shop, or mammoth discount tent sale probably spends more time in a dark closet, but honestly, what sport doesn’t have its gilded marketing veneer that attempts to outshine the substance? I’m ready for winter. Let’s hit the slopes!
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