An Ode to Skinny Skis

Much has been made lately of ski widths. After years of progression, where the profiles of our two planks have gone from straight, to hourglass, and finally to ultra-wide and rockered, we have arrived at the present day–a futuristic time where ski technology has reached a zenith. But that suite of innovation has also been pressed mercilessly into pushing the fatty into every use case in skiing. An arms race of sorts has ensued, with makers now touting their beefy 100mm-plus options as ‘quivers of one,’ while their marketing collateral impels users toward wider skis, aspirations of ostensibly ubiquitous blower pow front of mind.

Thus a counterpoint of sorts has materialized. Olympian Deb Armstrong, the venerable and vocal former gold medalist embodied this when she spoke of influencers and skiers alike as “the blind leading the blind” toward not only hyperbolically wide planks, but ones woefully unmatched to the skiing most are undertaking.

The conversation has rightfully called for a moderating of ski girth–of putting a prudent ski on the right feet to match conditions. And that the fatties have their time and place, just like a svelte, hour-glass carver does.

But I’m here to take a determined stand for the narrow skis–for the alpine-touring toothpicks, the cross-country downhill workhorses, and the screw-your-notions-of-what’s-the-right-ski skinnies. This is an ode–no, a proclamation of superiority–of the skinny ski.

To begin, let me clarify one point: while narrower, lighter skis are absolutely the scalpel of choice for picking apart narrow coolies–and for getting to the top of them without hyperventilating–this is not a declaration of skinny skis’ preeminence as touring tool supreme; that characterization goes without saying.

What I’m saying is that narrow skis–85mm and skinnier –are not only the best skis for most any conditions, their superiority–versatility, dexterity, and all–allows a breadth of skiing that no fat ski can match. A skinnier plank can ski ‘up’ attached to an adept skier–that is it can be tasked with any condition (powder included) with the right technique, whereas a fat ski can’t ski ‘down,’ as readily–it may ski 24 inches of fresh snow well, but is woefully unmatched to ski conditions that a narrow ski can tackle–bumps, ice, and variable snow, to name a few.

Even the skinniest skis–especially of the fishscale, free-heel variety–offer an enlightening downhill experience, one not beholden to the mandates of resort skiing; unbound to a rigid ethos of being cool or skiing the ‘right’ way. Instead of being the silly skis many claim them to be, they offer an intimate and exhilarating challenge. And the necessity narrow skis require of setting a correct edge and weighting properly throughout pays technique dividends that sitting in the backseat on a couple of boats won't quite grant you.

To get into it, the notion that one must have an immensely wide ski to properly make turns in powder is a farce. Does that mean we need to dump modern technology and go back in time 40 years? For social media; yes. But absolutely not in ski technology. While this writer certainly has misgivings on the expanded waistlines of most modern planks, I certainly do not share the same sentiment for modern ski technology. Eschewing the new guard for 68mm sidecut-less skis is not my goal. Well, not completely.

With the advent of rocker, skis with widths in the 80s can more than handle their own in the deep stuff. While that may not mean floating on the very top of the snow, with a little technique (yes, technique) and the typical amount of powder-morning gusto, narrower skis can be the tool of choice even when the snow comes. The bounding, short-radius technique necessary may borrow heavily from the old school, but it’s an eminently viable way to descend powder, and the way many of us prefer to ski. And those same planks can be the tool of choice for skiing and touring on the other 95 percent of days when it doesn’t snow two feet overnight. Modern ski technology–and a little mettle–quashees the notion of at what width a ski becomes viable in power.

My defensiveness for the skinny ski truly finds its footing fighting the ubiquity of the fat ski. A one-size fits all, one-definition-fits-all-scenarios mindset has come to pass.Where the perceived correct ski on any day is superfluously wide, the industry and subculture pointing folks toward skis that have their place only on the deepest days.

The powder ski of last week has become the everyday-driver of today. And that’s a ski my narrow hips and telemarking style don’t desire almost any day that I’m lucky enough to find myself on the slopes. A wide ski is thus not only unnecessary, but burdensome on my biomechanics. Alas, many a comment spills out from Kool-Aid stained mouths when eyes spy my planks, immediately incredulous to my personal choice for the narrower ski.

But here’s where I’m really going to lose the fat ski acolytes; tilting the scales the opposite direction–skiing superfluously skinny skis–is a world all its own, eminently worthy of experiencing. No, I’m not talking about ironic Gaper Day antics. I’m talking about something called cross-country downhill, or XCD.

When telemark skiing had its countercultural resurgence in the United States in the seventies, the paraphernalia of the day was of a decidedly Nordic character. The most widely available gear for overland, winter travel was cross-country equipment–seemingly ill-equipped for downhill skiing. Folks were decades from mounting alpine skis with free-heel bindings. Instead, backcountry powder hunters of the day were often tasked with using these long, skinny, fish-scaled cross-country skis mounted with three-pin, free-heel bindings, and mastering the telemark technique to earn their spoils. Cross-country downhill was born.

While the gear of choice for backcountry skiing has moved decidedly toward alpine touring, and the equipment for powerful downhill telemark turns has chased the same evolution, the cross-country downhill ethos–as small and esoteric as ever–lives on. And equipment tailored to this style is still with us, and in fact has modernized markedly over the years. The double-camber of legacy cross-country skis has mellowed, while three-pin bindings previously without more than the support of the toe bail clamp–have long come with the option of heel cables of different types. Instead of a flail-fest, XCD and its gear allow not only meadow skipping freedom, but exciting skiing. Again, if you have the chops.

This type of skiing grants the skier a complete, exhilarating experience, one where maybe the steepest slopes are left for other days, but where traveling overland and descending hold similar weight; where fishscales render skins somewhat unnecessary, leaving the transition to ski mode a decision instead of a task.

Philosophical musings aside: though now not a requirement, classic XCD skiing was and is undertaken using skinny skis. And when coupled with low-cut plastic boots and solid telemark technique, a unique skiing experience emerges–one not only novel compared to the bustle of the resort, but one where adept and exciting skiing can indeed take place, questioning the expectations of the skiing mainstream and our zealotry for the wide ski itself.

Traipsing up slopes under one’s own power then seamlessly bounding downhill on narrower, free-heel skis reminds one of the expansive palette that skiing on snow is. And that any notion of a ‘right’ way to do it, or what constitutes the correct or cool gear to use is not only narrow-minded, but ushers in an unnecessary conventionality.

There’s infinite ways to do this thing we love. Here’s a vote for doing it on skinny skis.