The Fleeting Catharsis of Putting Ski Gear Away for the Season

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The room was a mess . Bed unmade, sleeping bag strewn haphazardly over the end table, the spare bedroom epitomized clutter. My ice axe sat by my helmet on a naked corner of the mattress, the sheet pulled into a heap toward the other end of the bed. And on a teetering drying rack my ski clothes–pants, long johns, jacket and all–waited in disordered patience, like the whole lot would soon be pressed into action for another ski escapade; as if another morning resort tour before work or a trailhead campout followed by backcountry skiing misadventure was on tap.

But a midsummer sun burst through the open window. And the snow had retreated from all but the highest peaks, now guarded by growing brambles and creek crossings running at full torrent.

The alpine had other protection, too: our own psyches. My ski buddies and I had gone bell-to-bell that season, ticking off objectives late into the season; partaking in boys trips more fun than I had ever known before but equally unashamed in their testosterone-or-bust, supposedly manly over-extravagance.

It was time to put all the ski gear away. It was needed.

And I didn’t want it stowed somewhere convenient, where at any moment this wild amalgamation of gear could be called upon for a harebrained September glacier mission. This season called for a different approach–full separation from my ski gear for at least four months. I got to work.

Methodically I started to put my gear in its new designated places. A drawer for gloves and hats was stuffed full. I hung up all my ski clothes and relegated them to the back of my closet. Batteries came out of my avalanche beacon, seldom used ice axes and crampons were sheathed and stored. In about an hour the mess had disappeared; the spare room that had chaotically housed my ski equipment since last October was at last clean and tidy. I immediately found solace in that.

But as one neurosis was eclipsed, another emerged. I instantly couldn’t help but wonder what my conspicuous collection of ski gear meant. And the relief of its absence made me ponder what its presence did to my mind by the end of each season.

For one, the sheer volume of the equipment was staggering. The two helmets, ten pairs of ski socks (for apparently different conditions), and three pairs of pants, all of varying deniers, accounted for only a fraction of the total. It didn’t even include the hardware that lived in the garage year-round: ten pairs of skis, three sets of poles, five pairs of boots, and so on. I felt a wave of privilege-induced guilt that I knew I deserved.

In that guilt I couldn’t help but question this sum of gear, this illustration of the infinite gray area between wonton consumption and necessary equipment for adventure. While the points of my crampons were necessary for safely ascending snowy slopes, I couldn’t say the same for my flashy, pro-deal procured outerwear, or my half-dozen pairs of sunglasses. Where was the balance?

Cynicism quickly set in. I thought of the many Instagram posts touting the outdoor subculture’s ethos as bound to holistic land use; my mind went to the cliche elevation of its members as simple searchers of transcendence in wildlands. To me that better describes Jim Morrison, not his latter-day, ayahuasca-praising acolytes. I, too, wasn’t spared from this ire. At that moment I certainly didn’t feel my gear collection embodied an elevated mindset.

Mind-alterers or not, we skiers are certainly not ascetics. Caught between a necessity for gear–what with its hazy role allowing us to travel in beautiful, exciting places–and a slippery slope of conspicuous consumption, many of our closets and sheds burst with items used only so often. All the while those of us wearing dirty old jackets and nicked-up skis are often derided for being grubby, tuned-out, uncool. No matter how hard those folks ski.

While my mind picked up on the questions of how much gear was too much, it also set something down: the aching goal-orientation my skiing had taken on. When my gear sat out it seemed to beckon to me. Each dark weekday morning I walked by it instead of into it, I felt it goad me. “You’re not going to skin this morning?” it seemed to mock. And in the spring it badgered me about my lofty couloir-bound ambitions. My ice axe begged for more scratches; my crampons seemed to need more reasons to be put on my feet. While I more often than not felt a burning desire deep within to go out and use these pieces of gear in meaningful ways, the neurosis of my goals had by that late date become a scratch itched raw. Instead of always elevating my being, my obsession with skiing had devolved by that point in the season, overstimulating me to the point of numbness.

So it was indeed time to put the ski gear away. It would allow the endeavor to feel all the sweeter come November. And reorganizing the heap allowed a healthy reconsideration of not only how much gear I hoarded, but how its omnipresence in my everyday life had occasionally become counterproductive. Ceding to the season, letting it nudge me toward a different sort of balance was at once reflective and relieving.

Ah, but how fleeting our lofty ideals can be. As spring turned to summer, my office at work became a locker room–in organization as in smell–housing not one mountain bike, but also my pregnant wife’s. It had long made me jealous of my bride, as had her ability–though not a tall task–to handily out-descend me. Either way, I could now ride her cool bike whenever I wanted until we could at last ride together again after our second child joined us.

My two pairs of biking gloves–stinky and grimy–sat on the spare desk. While my three pairs of cleats were scattered on the floor, two of the three were simply waiting to be used. The summer heap of gear matched my winter one, though admittedly free from the same over-use neurosis– that mental state put aside for now until I overdid it all over again come fall.

The circle remained unbroken; it had that way about it. Balance remained unfound, just as contentment seemed to take on a seasonality now, marked by fresh starts precipitated by neurotic overindulgence. An immoderation that included a certain cyclical fray with the very thing that aided me in doing so many of the things I loved most: my gear.