literal animal skins, but the concept remains the same: a sheath of angled
unidirectional fibers with an adhesive backing, stuck on the bottom of the
ski like a fuzzy decal.
We climb up through the trees behind the yurt on a well-used skin
track. Accustomed to the hip-straining slog of snowshoes in deep powder, I marvel at how effortlessly the skis ascend. I settle into the skinning
rhythm, lifting one ski, gliding it upward, and setting it down with a
subtle shift of weight.
We crest a small knob and stop.
Sievers demonstrates how to set up the skis for alpine mode: set the
bindings, lock the boots, peel off, and stow the skins.
I have a vague recollection of the "pizza and French fries" technique.
But, accustomed to the single plank of a snowboard, I worry about the
two skis running at cross-purposes, my pizza and French fries turning into
a pretzel. But when the skis meet the slope they track like two tethered
sled dogs down the contours of the forested slope.
I don't know how to make powder-skiing kick turns, so I learn quickly
how to right myself in deep powder. Feeling confident, I point the tips
of the skis more into the fall line, figuring that powder is more forgiving
than a skied-smooth resort bunny hill.
Back at the yurt, I beam. I've just powder-skied through an untracked
forested glade an hour's snowmobile ride from the nearest sign of human
habitation—an enviable location for a powderhound, let alone a rank
beginner.
"I think a lot of people come up to the yurts just to enjoy the surroundings with friends and family," says Sievers. "You don't have to be a hardcore
skier to enjoy it."
He's right; at the yurt, whether you ski at 3,000 vertical feet or 300,
there's still a cold beverage and warm fire waiting at the end of your run.
16
distinctly montana • winter 2014
