Tree Skiing Is The Ultimate Art Form

The joke, which isn't worth explaining, was my family's faked confusion as to why I would single out a grouping of trees on a mountain covered in millions of them.

In reality, they knew I was identifying what appeared to be a narrow gladed area of trees that danced between two parallel trails. 

The trees were spaced closely together and the snow was less than ideal, but I watched in wonderment as a flurry of Mainers came slashing and slipping their way through the glade with pace and precision.

My love for tree skiing started on the slopes of Sterling Mountain, one of Smugglers' Notch's three peaks. As I worked my way up through the ranks of Smuggs' ski school, my instructors unlocked an insatiable desire to ski trees.

My first foray into tree skiing was brutal. I quickly learned that the trees, in fact, do not move, and that it was my responsibility to turn around them. No matter. I was a kid with rubber band bones and ligaments made of Play-Dough. A bit of bushwacking and a few branch slaps to the face wasn't enough to deter me.

It's hard to say when that determination to get better at skiing trees turned into an obsession, but if my memory serves me well, it didn't take long.

Similar to the Mainers crashing through the narrow glade at Sugarloaf, I was mesmerized by how fluently an advanced east coast skier could navigate through a smattering of trees, bushes, and branches on jank snow.

I wanted to do what they could. I wanted to be them.

As a kid honing in on my skills, I dreamed of rolling up to a random glade at a new-to-me ski resort and having the confidence to expertly slice and dice my way through the forest as if the trees were moving around me, not the other way around.

I kept skiing, and with each passing season, I got better. In time, my family's annual ski trips to New England became more than just a vacation to look forward to. Instead, I treated every trip as a a precious opportunity to improve my skills in the trees.

One of my fondest memories involves a gentleman dressed in a Coonskin hat and brown duster jacket that gave me a pipe-stained toothy grin at the top of one of Smuggs' advanced glades.

The man didn't appear to be a "good" skier by his appearance (let's be honest, we judge all skiers by their kit and gear), but he exuded an aura of confidence.

Then, without even realizing what was happening, the man gave me a quick "Enjoy!", before leaping off a mogul and splitting two Birch trees in the air. 

He stuck the landing, gave a little slash to scrub the smallest amount of speed, and proceeded to fly down the glade with a delightful touch of grace and style. It was one of the coolest things I've seen to date.

I'll never have the swagger of this mysterious mountain man, but his skills left a lasting impression.

Tree skiing is my ultimate form of artistic expression, but don't worry, I'm not going to get too artsy-fartsy. Just bare with me for a moment.

If carving a high-speed line on an exposed bowl is an elegant paint brush stroke on a blank canvas, then lacing a furiously high-speed, yet technically sound line through tight trees is a Jackson Pollock.

I find immense amounts of joy at the randomness and unpredictability of skiing in the trees. At some moments I feel as if I'm just hanging on for dear life, and others I feel in complete control. The combination of these sensations is something I look forward to instead of shying away.

I yearn for the solace of standing in a gladed forest with just my thoughts and the sight of my breath in the frosty air. It's where I feel most alive.

The most rewarding part of the entire experience? Easy. Nothing, and I mean nothing, feels better than looking back up at a gladed area knowing that I successfully navigated its unforgiving terrain. It might have been ugly, but what adventure isn't?

Skiing trees is a microcosm of the skiing experience as a whole. It's not supposed to be easy, and those who stick with it reap the benefits.

I'll keep skiing trees until the day I can't move my legs fast enough to avoid them. Until then, you know where to find me.