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Powder September 2018

You never know when the next perfect powder day will come, so until then, pick up Powder Magazine for your ski runs. From dissecting the steepest, most technical first descents, to lofting big air, Powder transports you with award-winning photography and engaging articles that will take you to the top of the mountain.

United States
American Media Operations, Inc
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where everything makes sense

SOME DAYS, POWDER FINDS YOU by sheer stupid happenstance. You wake up and peek through the blinds. As if placed there like a gift from God, a foot of snow covers the porch where there was none before. Not a minute to lose, you slurp down coffee and raccoon around the back of the fridge for some dense carbohydrate and cheese. Skis, boots, poles; helmet, beacon, pack; thick mittens, extra layer, low-light lens, goggle wipe, double Buff—because there’s no way that one face shield is enough on a day like today. Riding on the chair through the storm, your inner child surfaces through the oppressive goo of adulthood. Decisions about career, health care, relationships, and day-to-day noise wash away as the chairlift takes you and a couple companions up, up, up,…


WHERE ‘HEATED SIDEWALKS’ HAS NO KNOWN TRANSLATION “Down Home—A road trip through Idaho done dirt cheap,” (46.4) is about real skiing. Big resorts offer nice runs and many luxuriously appointed features, but at the end of the day, a great turn and a face shot can be done anywhere it’s available, and the common language of skiing translates beautifully. JOHN CULLENT Via Powder.com BUT DOES HE WASH HIS PAWS AFTERWARD? I very much enjoyed the story on the Eiseman Hut (“The Fortunate Ones”) in the December 2017 issue (46.4). Eiseman was my first hut trip in Colorado. The skiing was exceptional, as was staying at the hut. I’d like to point out a couple of additional details on the pine marten featured in the story. His name is Jasper, per the hut logbooks, and his…

letter of the month

REMEMBER WHAT MATTERS I write this letter from my couch as I am recovering from a serious avalanche accident in the Wasatch a mere four days ago. Today, the new issue of Powder arrived and as I sit here unable to walk, typing with one hand, and prepping for surgery tomorrow, I am flipping through the pages of glorious powder skiing. Besides my family, skiing is my greatest love. Growing up in Pennsylvania, I read Powder magazine and dreamed of the day when powder would be in my world. For the last 29 seasons, I have had the privilege of skiing amazing snow here in Utah (and Canada). Along with so many amazing friends, I have experienced all that skiing offers to life—the bonds of friendship, beautiful mountains, thrilling moments, fantastic sunrises…


In a quiet, overlooked room tucked away in the Rila Mountains of Bulgaria, photographer Kari Medig was drawn to the contrast and simplicity of a seemingly out-of-place painting hung on a seafoam green wall in the Malyovitsa Hut. Built in 1934, the hut has enough dormitory beds and hot showers to accommodate as many as 125 skiers traveling through the mountains. “The room was pretty much empty, except for that painting,” says Medig. “Bulgaria has a stark aesthetic. This was so contrast to that.” Shot with a film camera, this image—once developed—took him back to the basics. “It’s nice to stop, take your skis off and look at the details in your surroundings every once in a while.”…

all up under it

You’ve probably skied by one, or perhaps you’ve wound up the pitch from the chairlift and tossed something silky into the outstretched branches of a nearby aspen. Maybe you shielded the eyes of your child as you rode past barely-there lace unmentionables. However your first time happened, to ski is to experience the Panty Tree. A storied talisman of ski culture, the Panty Tree first took root in the late 1970s in—where else?—Aspen, Colorado. Aspen Ski Company had just hired its first female ski patroller, and in an effort to see more women on the roster, less spots were made available to men. In protest, a handful of patrollers, developmentally indistinguishable from rocks, tossed a robust nursing bra in the tree off Bell Mountain Chair. “Other people thought it was pretty funny; they…

this is the golden age of gear

“We’ve never been better equipped to forget what we’re wearing, or what we’re skiing on, as we disappear into the narrow slice of a moment.” Even from the small window of my jacket hood, the wind is a savagery as it pours off the glacier. Visibility has dropped to 30 feet in half as many minutes and, roped up, we’re marching up the hill in search of the bulk of Mount Saint Nicholas that should soon appear on the left. April flakes careen out of the sky, stinging my nose and making their patter felt, even through the fabric of my coat. Another posse, which had been breaking trail, stopped to regroup among the onslaught in which we now trudge. And in the middle of this—the classic middle-of-a-ping-pong-ball, low-vis, exposed to the…