The Meaningless Pursuit of The Snow

I am sitting on a stool near the stove from which comes a soothing crackling sound. I look out the window of my house and, finally, my gaze can get lost in the white. I waited some time to write this article. Not out of laziness, not because I didn’t feel like it, but rather because it didn’t feel right to do so until at least some snow had settled in the meadows in front of my house. After all, that’s why I’m here, why I’ve come up here and why I’ve stayed here. This is something I am fully aware of: I would not be in this place, and I would not be who I am-for better or worse, that is-if it were not for the role that snow, and snowboarding, have played in my life.

It may sound absurd, maybe it is. Maybe it makes perfect sense instead. If you try to tell this to someone who does not share this passion, you may come across as a bit exaggerated, if not fanatical. However, if you talk about it with someone who, like you, viscerally loves snow, it will seem like the most natural thing in the world. It is a matter of feeling, of transportation, of sensation. And these things here more than explaining them you have to live them, you have to get into them, putting your hands in that tangle made of vibrations, lightness, sweat, emotions, failures and smiles. Mostly smiles. For better or for worse. And from that tangle find the thread that untangles the meaning of the search for snow. Non-existent meaning in some people’s lives. A fundamental meaning in the lives of others. Yet neither perspective is absolutely true.

Instead, what is really and concretely tangible is that this thread – indeed “flake” – conductor, has branches that connect seemingly distant people, places and motivations, whose stories, however, all converge toward the beating heart – as unique as it is ephemeral – of that snowflake. When I was little more than a child, I got into snowboarding because of the sensations it gave me; the sliding, the centrifugal force of the curve, the binding. The unparalleled feeling of floating in fresh snow. Over the years then, I went further. Toward untraveled terrain and unhumanized places, getting in touch with feelings that are very strong and deep for me. The enormity of Nature, the smallness of my being a man, the loneliness. The richness of solitude. The sounds of a forest, the emptiness of a curve on the steep. The sound of snow falling on itself during a curve. And along with all this complexity of emotions also arose in me questions about all those experiences.

Why does sliding on a board down a mountain make me feel this way? Why is it that when I’m here I feel so good? Could it be that a seemingly meaningless activity plays such an important role in my life? Over the years I have given myself many answers, in fact, many different answers. Answers that have evolved with me and are still evolving. Answers that are not-and do not have to be-absolutely valid but can change for anyone involved in this research.

And it is precisely this complexity of experiential facets and hypotheses of answers that I found in The Meaningless Pursuit of Snow (Patagonia Films – Sweetgrass Productions).

A documentary that asks that fateful, fundamental question, “Why are we doing this?“

And, rightly, he does not give a single answer but lets different characters speak, with heterogeneous approaches to snow and life, but all united by this deep feeling. And I must admit that it was good to find again, through the voices of other people, the same questions that I have asked myself many times, as well as to hear completely different opinions that are very far from my own reality. But the best thing was finding connecting lines with all the characters that make up this story. As if a contact, among the “pouderolese” (citing Zeo) human beings who undertook this quest, was always-or almost always-possible.

Across geographic, age or cultural boundaries. And so I found pieces of my own way of looking at snowboarding, powder, and the mountain in their experiences.

I found myself in part of the story of Aurélien Routens, who has moved with his partner to a high-altitude farmhouse far from everything and everyone but those mountains on which he loves to imagine and draw lines with his snowboard. I understood Vanessa Chavarriaga Posada ‘s joy in being able to rebuild her own, small community that would give her the sense of belonging that had eluded her in the earlier years of her life. I lost and found myself in that sea of shapes composed of snow and wood and in that constant search for harmony typical of Zen culture-which I feel is so strongly rooted in my experience in the mountains-as I observed Gomyo Atsushi shapeare his powdersurfing and traveling with his own van in constant search of snow. (btw, if someone was crazy enough to want to invest in me as a wooden board shaper, I feel ready!) And then I shed a tear along with Melissa Gill because to say that the mountains give us so much but sometimes seem to take everything away from us would be more than ever trite. Instead, finding the courage to recount your pain in order to make a small connection with those who have experienced suffering similar to yours demonstrates a courage that is far from obvious. All these snow stories, they have also been in part my own and, I am sure, that of many*others. Stories of search, community, harmony and loss. But above all, stories of enthusiasm and passion such as the one clearly legible in the smile of Viki Fleckenstein Woodworth, a former Olympic ski athlete who-now almost a grandmother-continues to nurture her passion for this quest. The idea of being able to maintain that smile and enthusiasm as long as I can snowboard is perhaps the most exciting accomplishment I can imagine. But I am convinced that the path to maintaining it is not just about going as often as possible to the mountains, I think rather it has to do-at least for me-with the caring. Taking care of one’s path of research beyond the meaning it may take at a particular stage of our life. Caring for one’s community, caring for the natural environment. A care that knows how to go beyond the search for snow and remain so even when the snow is gone or almost gone (and alas – spoiler alert – it is not too far away).

So what about us, all our questions and all our stories? Will we be able to make these connections even without snow? What will be the impact on us as people and as a community of this enormous change we are inducing in the world?

Viewed from a broader perspective, not being able to slide in powder anymore is probably the least of the problems, despite the fact that for some this activity is so important and fundamental. Our “tepid crisis” is only a reflection, in our privileged world, of a much deeper crisis that is evidently affecting our entire planet.

What meaning, then, does our research acquire?

When I look back I can distinctly see the life path that has brought me this far, I discern its more linear features and those that are less so, sometimes I find meaning in the choices I have made, other times I struggle more. But what I can say is that my path has always been – in one way or another – snowy. That I changed as the winters changed and that over the years I gave different meaning to the experiences I had in the snow. I changed opinions. I changed as a snowboarder while changing as a human being. As I look ahead, I hope that mine and your paths can always remain snow-rich, but I am also aware-and certain-that hoping is not enough. And if I witness the time when there will be no more crystals, I hope that from this seemingly meaningless quest of mine will drip infinite meanings capable of going beyond the snow itself and being interpreted by someone, who, like us, can read all the beauty and pain of the world in such a splendidly pointless activity as sliding down a mountain, over snow crystals.