SORRY WISCONSIN
I counted four Green Bay Packers jerseys and two Santa costumes. Not a tourist for a hundred miles. Dormant, leafless deciduous trees bordered each run, and unlike most days, they were coated in glowing white snow. It was a central Wisconsin pow day on Christmas Eve. A white Christmas is rare in these parts.
You have to leave in order to appreciate what you have, they say. After a decade, I returned to the place it all began for me—Nordic Mountain, WI. With newfound pride, I reexamined myself and the Midwest snow sliding culture I used to be ashamed of.
I’ve strapped into a plank of wood and plastic in some wild places: Iceland, Pakistan, Chile and Kyrgyzstan. But today, 300 vertical feet never looked so good. Or so small. For the last six years I’ve been in Jackson Hole, WY, surrounded by a jagged skyline that could pass as a 4-year-old’s drawing of the mountains—snow topped triangles erupting from the ground. The Tetons have flattened the Midwest even flatter. Even the lifts felt smaller, and shorter. The side hit right under the chairlift that used to scare the shit out of me, miniature.
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