Hang loose, buddy. We miss you. Photo: Ian Coble

The original version of this article appears in the newest issue of Coast Mountain Culture. 

Recently I was on a flight from Denver to the Pacific Northwest and overheard a conversation involving a recently transplanted university student. When asked what he thought of moving from the Mile-High metropolis to the Emerald City, he replied “You guys don’t have any mountains.” When the response was “Well, there’s Baker and Alpental and Stevens Pass…,” the student drawled, “Not like our mountains in Colorado.”

Mr. Colorado was comparing his mountains to ours, and despite that his admittedly taller-than-our mountains have less oxygen, tiny trees, and are wildly more crowded, he still thought they were better. Two rows ahead and firmly biting my tongue, I silently disagreed. It raises the question, why dispute which mountains are best?

I like to think mountain culture means more than who boasts the highest elevation or glassiest swell. In my mind, it’s the quality of people that make the difference. I’d rather have one great friend on a molehill than a mountain of acquaintances. Friends make the mountains.

This past winter, the Pacific Northwest mountain community lost some great friends. Duncan MacKenzie, Sarah Burke, Jim Jack, Johnny Brenan and Chris Rudolph all capped off exhilarating, accomplished lives in the mountains and left a hole in the community as big as their hearts. While I’d met most of them through the intertwined web of the Pacific Northwest outdoor community, my relationship with one of them reminded me how the loss of friends affects our mountain tribe.

Chris Rudolph was a man who owned the mountains. With an omnipresent, mischievous smile, he found joy in the smallest of pursuits. He kept those around him fuelled with his endless reservoir of stoke. The last time we met, we stayed up late into the night drinking cheap beer and talking about new projects, like the launch of this very magazine where Chris—a stellar writer in his own right—was a contributor. We also talked about his ongoing role as the Ambassador of All Things Rad. Chris was the director of marketing at Stevens Pass and the biggest cheerleader for their new bike park. He was heavily involved in the Leavenworth outdoor scene and was pushing to introduce elementary-school students to skiing and snowboarding through the Outdoors for All Foundation. He raised funds for the High Fives Foundation. He was learning to speed fly. He was planning an Alaskan heliski trip. At 31, he was relearning backflips on his skis. The man never stopped. Until this winter.

When he passed away while backcountry skiing this past February it hit the community hard, not only because we lost a friend, but because Chris lived his life the way we’d like to. We looked up to him. He knew it was never about where you were. It was how well you did while you were there.

So I’m going to stop engaging in arguments about this singletrack versus that one, or 26″ vs. 29ers, or longboards vs. fish, or who flashed a line the smoothest. There will be no arguments about which sport carries more credibility. I’ve got better things to do than debate.

Instead, I will make deliberate attempts to live like Chris. To enjoy every root, rock and son-of-a-bitch-of-a-climb on my bike ride. I’ll haplessly flounder in the whitewash and happily soak up every wave. I’ll get naked for wacky photos on mountain peaks. I’ll play campfire guitar and make up lyrics to songs I’ve forgotten. And at the end of each impossibly adventurous day, I’ll drink wine on my back porch as the sun goes down and I’ll toast Chris. You did it right, my friend.

And for the record, Chris would have told that dude on the plane that Colorado sucks.

—Mike Berard

“The grey monochromatic light filters through the stacked thunderheads, peeling away mislaid priorities from lines left fresh in the soil, covering the chaff from which the wheat of my present has been extracted and future will be planted.

            No regrets- Who said that? Certainly a liar. We all cut, tear, and bury. Harvest only comes as the result of compound, timely destruction.

            When the season of reaping arrives, this harvest will be called to account–the yield determined through seasons of farmer’s choices.

            Will there be enough for the winter? I’m not certain. I know that I love this rain, this atmosphere, this moment. A derivative of life, fleetingly here, constantly passing.”

—Chris Rudolph,  1981-2012

Play it where it lies: the simple rule of a complicated game. It goes like this: play the hand you’re dealt with head held high. Man up and throw down. Get ‘er done. In essence, s*#% or get off the pot. Going forward is the only way to get to where you need to be, or where you think you need to go next. Despite what DVD coaches and glossy magazines declare, there is no easy way to acquire significant gain. Obstacles, roadblocks and other assorted pains-in-the-ass are integral in our march towards perfection. Each of these impediments ensures that life, and the game, stays fresh. Each shank and slice teaches us how to adjust for straightness, each trap how to escape a sticky situation. When we land in water, we are refreshed. When we lose our way, we are granted the possibility of finding it.

“The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.” — Colum McCann

If the fairways of the world were straight and the greens level, we’d joylessly celebrate easy victories. We would not and could not love a game we’ve wholeheartedly bought into without frustration and the obsessive pursuit of synchronicity. The beauty and the struggle are one. Charles Darwin knew this. Sir Edmund Hilary knew this. We all know that the sweet experience of a high is so intense because the bitter sting of our last loss still lingers on our tongue.

“One minute you’re bleeding.  The next minute you’re hemorrhaging.  The next minute you’re painting the Mona Lisa.”  – Mac O’Grady

So let this be a tribute to the lows as well as the highs. The lost balls and the bogies. The rain, the wind and the tempestuous moods that accompanied them. Let us embrace the days when we are weak so that we may celebrate the brief moments when we find strength in near perfection. To see how far it can take you, you need grace on your side. You have to play it where it lies. And don’t forget, it’s just golf.  – Mike Berard

Photo: Damian Cromwell Punter: Mike Berard

The map doesn’t lie. The laminated 11×17-inch piece of paper is just one of many belonging to guide Paul Bernsten. Bernsten sits in the passenger seat of a Bell 212 helicopter loaded up with clients and flying through the imposing peaks of the Waddington Range. In every direction, the blank spots on the map stretch out around us. On the map itself, a small amount of peaks and glacial runs have names written in Magic Marker. Most sit empty, unmarked by neither pen nor P-Tex. But some feature the telltale sign of what fuels men like Paul and heliskiing companies like Pantheon; big, red question marks.

Bernsten, Pantheon Heliskiing’s lead guide became ACMG certified in 1987, and has since been working as a heliskiing guide in mountain ranges around the world since, including Greenland, Chile, and the Indian Himalaya. Tall, quiet and friendly to a fault, he exudes neither the intensity nor the arrogance that plagues some in the high-pressure guiding community. Rather, he comes across as more grateful than most skiers, and he should be. Pantheon’s tenure is impressive; 1,250,000 acres of Coast Range territory that looks like it belongs in an epic fantasy blockbuster, and barely populated with those who seek to ski it. Still, it doesn’t explain the modesty. If I were in his position, I know I’d be bragging. Hell, I’d be screaming from the peaks. Then again, I am but a mere mortal skiing in the temple of the Gods. My humanity betrays me.

Photo: Damian Cromwell Happy Man: Mike Berard

Building Heaven

In 1983, a Swiss-born, B.C.-raised skier named Beat Steiner was squatting in a backcountry cabin in the then barely-developed town of Whistler. Through the occasional stint as a ski model, and as a burgeoning cinematographer, Steiner’s influence in the ski world was growing as he started producing and shooting films such as the Imax Extreme series and features for NBC and Warren Miller. He soon met fellow cinematographer Christian Begin, one of the first Quebecers to make the move from the French Canadian province to the future ski Mecca. Together, the duo became a powerhouse team working on a host of television commercials and feature films. During this period, they worked closely with a now-legendary, loud-and-proud Swedish guide.

At the time, Pete “The Swede” Mattsson often worked with a couple of unknown skiers named Trevor Petersen and Eric Pehota, while producing and guiding the same expeditions Steiner and Begin were shooting. In the constant search for new big mountain territory, the trio found themselves deep in the Coast Range of British Columbia. The combination of steep, deep and unexplored terrain allowed them to film landmark segments for almost every film company of the era, including MSP, TGR and Warren Miller. It was here—near the tiny fishing town of Bella Coola—that they founded Bella Coola Helisports in 2003.

For years, Bella Coola played host to the best skiers and film companies in the world. Seth Morrison threw his now-legendary 80-foot, 720 rodeo attempt here. Shane McConkey brought his infamous pair of waterskis to Bella Coola first, in what would be the origins of the reverse camber ski revolution. The Swede, the Swiss and the Quebecer were quickly garnering a reputation for being able to deliver unexplored, unskied burly terrain on command. And the Bella Coola name was growing. But the boys had their eyes elsewhere.

Photo: Damian Cromwell Lucky Sonofabitch: Mike Berard

The House of Worship

Heliski tenure consultant Eric Ringdahl had founded Pantheon Heliskiing in 2004—pantheon meaning “house of worship.” With the Waddington Range beckoning, he saw the opportunity to deliver guests to the foot of B.C.’s highest peak, the alluring and dangerous Mt. Waddington. With a vertical relief comparable to the Himalayas, the dramatic mountain possesses the unique quality that originally brought Alfred Waddington to its reaches in search of his own gold treasures. Centuries later, Ringdahl would attempt to get in on a gold rush of his own, offering heliskiing in the area. Like the mountain’s namesake, he would succumb to challenges as well, and Pantheon soon found itself in financial trouble. Steiner, Mattsson and Begin saw an opportunity to expand their mini big-mountain empire, and decided that they could make a go of it where Ringdahl had failed, by using their tried-and-tested Bella Coola formula; less people, bigger mountains, even bigger personality.

While Bella Coola’s film projects had thrived on using the smaller A-star helicopters to ensure access to trickier terrain, Pantheon would use a larger Bell 212 to bring powder hungry skiers to higher altitudes. On massive glaciers in the shadow of Waddington, only a few select groups of skiers lay tracks of cold smoke where few men, and even fewer skiers, have gone. With only eight spots available each week in the luxurious-but-rustically-styled lodge at White Saddle Ranch. Since Pantheon was purchased by Bella Cool Helisports, only 150 souls have flown in the area. Some of those have names like McConkey and Morrison. Most are just like you and I

Photo: Damian Cromwell

Waddington Proper

On our third day at Pantheon, the previously overcast weather breaks and the winds go virtually still. This allows our pilot, Dan Chase–a hulking, friendly giant of a man who spends most of his time fighting fires in the B.C. interior–to drop our group on a peak overlooking Waddington proper. As Bernsten tells the story of mountaineers Don and Phyllis Munday, the photographer and I peer over the mountain’s edge. Below us sits 5,000 vertical feet of virgin slope, calf-deep and light enough to hang in the air long after a skier passes. Bernsten notices our short attention spans, laughs and cuts his speech brief, allowing us to ski what is one of the highlights of the week. Giddy and impatient, Cromwell drops in first and I soon follow, schmearing countless turns at high-speed. In every direction, the glacier stretchs outward far enough that it could provide days worth of lines. Of course it doesn’t have to. There’s another glacier just like it just over there… and over there… and over there.

It’s strange how being immersed in an endless supply can make you want to soak up every single bit of it for an eternity. Like incredible cuisine, each bite should be savored, and I try to let the flavor of each turn linger as long as possible before making another. The snow is cold, and when I purposefully spray it overhead it becomes frozen in place on my face. The sting lasts just long enough until the next turn.

Photo: Damian Cromwell Winner: Mike Berard

When we arrive at the bottom of the run, deep in one of the valleys used as a film set for Seven Years in Tibet, Paul is waiting for us. Our ruddy faces and melting snow broken only by gleaming smiles, he looks through his omnipresent sunglasses and states in the understated, easygoing manner we would soon know as his primary characteristic, “Pretty good, eh?” Everyone laughs at the modesty.

“Pretty good?! That was f—ing incredible.” I reply.

“Yeah,” he chuckles “Pretty good.”

On the return flight to White Saddle Ranch, the peaceful vista of peaks pours in through the scratched and stained plexiglass windows. In the deafening roar of the helicopter we sit, exhausted and exuberant from 20,000 feet of vertical in blower snow. I crane my neck to see Bernsten in the front, map in hand, peering out at a million unnamed runs waiting for his mark. Suddenly, I understand heliskiing—and people like Bernsten—a little better. When a world of undiscovered Coast Range terrain sits beneath you, and a fuelled-up machine awaits your direction, there really is no advantage in bragging about your position. The part of the human heart that deals in ugly jealousy swells with angry blood when confronted with tales of rotor-fueled vertical. It’s the human condition, or at least the skier’s curse—if you can’t have it, you sure as hell don’t want to hear about it. Soak it up. Enjoy it. But be grateful and be modest. Otherwise, hubris only brings us down from the lofty position we’ve achieved, high in the temple of the Gods. – Mike Berard

I met Seth Morrison. And even though it was only for a fleeting moment at The Ordinary Skier premiere, it was a lasting experience. I introduced myself, we shook hands, and that was it. You can see it all in the grainy 4×6 photo I have. Me looking at one camera, him at another, the legend and the lowly ski writer, a strange honor. After all, I do not know this guy I have my arm around, and he looks uncomfortable. How can you blame him? We don’t know each other.

I’ve never been one for star worship. While I have admired, and aspired to emulate, Morrison’s burly, balls-out skiing since I first viewed his segment in TGR’s Continuum, it feels weird for me—a 33-year-old man—to ask for a photo or autograph from an athlete. I have to ask myself what value the image holds, other than proof that it happened. Why is proof needed? I was there. I remember it.

Last winter I traveled to Revelstoke with a group of very close friends who are, at best, weekend warriors, and at worst, gapers. We woke up late at a time they considered early to ski cut-up powder and dust-on-crust. We took many breaks to get coffee, get breakfast, get lunch, get an afternoon snack and use the bathroom. It was a kind of ski trip I wasn’t accustomed to, but one that many skiers experience. There was no perpetual pressure to claim more powder, steeper runs and bigger airs. There was more time spent on corduroy, and definitely less powder, despite the fact that Revelstoke’s white riches lay all around us. I spent a lot of time waiting. I also spent a lot of time laughing. These were some of my best friends, even if they skied slowly and caught tiny amounts of air with impeccable outhouse style.

After forcing myself to relax, I started to see the value in skiing with these guys. While I was missing out on deep turns in the slackcountry, I was witnessing the raw enthusiasm of people who love to ski but only get to do it a handful of times a year. They shrieked like little girls while floundering through flat pow turns in orphan patches of snow, days after the last storm. They skied from first until last chair every day, on groomers. The beer was cold and plentiful. The hot tub was polluted with sweaty feet. We bragged about our skiing in the evenings, and stayed up late every night talking about everything else. In many ways, it wasn’t that different from trips with skier friends, and it was downright enjoyable every minute of that week.

Maybe you’re lucky enough to have best friends and family members that rip as hard as you do. But maybe you’re not. Contrary to the cliché, there are friends on a powder day. And sometimes those friends are gapers. They can show you an appreciation for skiing that you may have lost in the race for radness we all buy into after watching a Seth Morrison movie.

Of course, I’d ditch every one of those snow-plowing gapers for one run with Seth.

In November 2011, Coast Mountain Culture magazine launched with yours truly at the helm. I’m honoured to be a part of this title, and to be working with the very talented team of Mitchell Scott, Peter Moynes, Tara Cunningham, Chris and Daiva Rowat, and Darren Davidson. Collectively, they have been producing Kootenay Mountain Culture for a decade and their dedication to quality and storytelling rings true with me. The following is the editor’s note in the first issue of CMC. Here’s to hoping for the same success that KMC has enjoyed. – MB

Photo: Mike Berard

My car hates the rain. It only makes sense. The vehicle was designed under the roof of an impeccably kept facility in Wolfsburg, Germany, and built in the sweaty factories of Puebla, Mexico. Its rusting steel was torn from the Alabama ground, and the cracked glass of the windshield is borne of Cholulan silica. Everything about this car points to a polygamist birth from distant lands, far from the Pacific Northwest. I think that’s the problem: my car is allergic to the unique landscape I call home.

There’s truth to the old adage “Home is where the heart is.” We are the product of our environments, and while we can adapt to new ones, the places we come from always leave an indelible stamp on our hearts. And I don’t just mean in an intangible way. Every particle of the human body is derived from the immediate environment it grows in. What we drink becomes cell structure. What we eat becomes flesh. My car may not play by those rules, but my body does.

I was born in the Pacific Northwest’s soggy rainforest. I drank the water of swollen Vancouver Island rivers and breathed the respiration of the coniferous giants that dwarfed my childhood home. Being a farm-raised kid, I digested meat and produce that became my body. I am, quite literally, the Pacific Northwest. Unlike my shitty, sputtering car, when I venture beyond these Cascadian borders, I am reminded of my connection to it with every turn.

My car hates the rain because it is the spoiled love child of an international pregnancy. Its parents are fair-weather candy asses. It skips and chugs when confronted with torrential rain. It burps exhaust and vomits oil asthe Sea-to-Sky-and-back elevation tests the resolve of its tired gaskets. But not me. I am built for this land. I revel in the moisture and crisp coastal air. I believe precipitation has shaped our rugged topography, a landscape broken and jagged from glacial warfare. I embrace the rain with joyously wet and muddy mountain bike rides. I put my face into the strong, wet wind and I dive deep into thick coastal snowpack. I easily defeat seasonal affective disorder with strong caffeine doses and liberal outdoor prescriptions.

On the flip side, I sweat gratuitously in hot weather, even while standing still. I frighten easily at the sight of an endless, waterless horizon. I wilt at high altitude, my breath thin and asthmatic in the dry Colorado air, and my skin dry and itchy on the Great Plains. No, I am certain where I belong, and it is in the rainforests and unpredictable surf of this western coast. It’s in the snow-hammered mountains, where powder is a relative term. This is where I live, and I am happy to be a part of a new magazine devoted to all that rules in the Northwest. From Portland to Prince George, from Haida Gwaii to Bend, from Juneau to Jordan River, Coast Mountain Culture will bring the best of the Pacific Northwest to you. That is, if my car gets us there. -Mike Berard

We all have one friend who loves skiing more than most. For me, that friend is Ross…and I hate him. I met Ross shortly after moving to Fernie in 1997. He’d been there for one season and had gained the sense of entitlement all skiers get after being in town exactly one day longer than you. He hated the management of the mountain and they hated him. Ski patrol had him pegged as public enemy number one. Most women were terrified of him. It seemed everyone had a problem with Ross. Almost immediately upon meeting him, I hated him as well.

As a liftie, I’d frequently get calls on the radio about an intoxicated skier yelling at people from the lift. Frustrated, I would step out of the warm lift shack to wait for the suspect. Inevitably, it was Ross. Dressed in ridiculous space goggles, ¾-length fur coat and all the accoutrement of the late 90s-era, punk-inspired Freeze reader, Ross was certainly yelling. Whether he was drunk was harder to discern. After all, Ross was generally unruly and always abrasive.

He was also always there.

Every morning, powder or rain, weekday or weekend, early or late season, Ross was there. He was the first in line, coffee in hand, nursing a hangover, ranting about his night, the ineptness of the ski patrol or how bad your skis were. He was there when the rope dropped to Snake Ridge. He was there when the coveted Easter Bowl opened. He was hiking to Currie Bowl while you were getting lunch. And he was there when everyone had gone home, when only his silhouette at the top of the headwall remained. Patrol would perform one last sweep of the mountain then leave Ross to his dodgy dusk ski missions on Fernie’s steepest, most exposed terrain. Slowly, this reckless, undying love of skiing won me over. Ross and I became friends, if only for his willingness to show me sketchy entrances to virgin stashes, and for a joie de vivre that outweighed his admittedly asshole tendencies.

It’s been many years since Ross and I became close, and he’s still up to his old tricks. This past winter, he won the Captain’s Cup in Jackson Hole, an award given to the person who “best embodies the spirit of Powder Week.” He traveled constantly to ski resorts, tradeshows and festivals, all in the name of skiing and partying as much as possible. When I ran into him at the World Ski and Snowboard Festival, he was trying to sneak onto the gondola with monoski in hand and a strong tinge of whiskey on his breath. At the bottom of the Superpipe competition, he loudly chastised me for my choice of skis, the same way he’d done for 14 years. And I loved it. This train wreck of a man had entered into a lifelong relationship with skiing, and when I see him I can’t help but put aside my temporary hatred in order to tap into the endless supply of love he gives to the sport. He pisses me off on a daily, if not run-by-run, basis. He still yells at tourists. He still makes me drink bad tequila in the morning. He is as annoying as he is passionate, and that’s a high order.

In his impromptu speech after winning the Captain’s Cup, I saw a side of Ross I have never seen before. He brimmed with emotion as he explained how 18 years of ski bumming had led to this moment. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even curse. He stood as a gentleman and accepted it with humility and drunken grace. “I came here to be myself.” he says “To meet new friends…and this blows me away.” After all these years, I can honestly say it doesn’t surprise me that he’s still making friends through his passion for skiing. Ross, you’re one hell of a guy and you deserve the love. And you have no idea how much it kills me to say that. – Mike Berard

When I see the words “athletic fit” on a product tag, I get scared. Too many après beers and a lust for good food leaves me on the far side of that category. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t need a technically superior, dry and good looking jacket—I can ski down hills as well as the next ripped and six-packed dude and I deserve world class gear as much as the next altimeter-sporting, lungs-with-legs human experiment. Thankfully, the Enzo works for anyone who needs the best.

As part of The North Face’s new Summit Series, an “athlete tested, expedition proven, best-in-class” line, the Enzo jacket ($550 CDN) and pants ($430 CDN) might have the all important athletic cut that athletes need, but it works well for most of us who are capable of skiing all day. This fully seam sealed Gore-Tex Pro shell is a no nonsense set up for skiers and snowboarders who prefer performance over bells and whistles. Everything about this kit is low profile, from the fit to the pockets. The jacket worked well in partnership with a base and mid layer, and sported the right venting to keep me from overheating while charging in the warm Whistler storms we are capable of getting. With the classic Pacific Northwest situation of multiple climate zones on one hill plaguing me, the Enzo jacket and pants hold up well to the up-and-down temperatures of Peak to Creek runs. No water gets in at lower elevations, and when it freezes again on the Peak chair, it merely flakes off leaving the Gore-Tex ready to fend off another torrent of Whistler “powder”. Perfect.

One sticking point for me was the pockets inability to hold much of consequence without constricting movement. The chest pocket worked fine for things like a cell phone or wallet but items in the side pockets and pants pockets could be felt deep in a turn. I don’t use pants pockets so it doesn’t affect me but be aware if you do—these ones are better left to paper products only as they are tight. The good news is, you know they’ll stay dry.

Definitively waterproof, breathable, easily adjustable for temperature, seam sealed and damn slick looking, the Enzo is a great set up for the coastal mountains. Layer up, keep your accoutrement at home or in your pack, and ski hard all day, knowing you’ll stay dry and happy, even if you’re not an athlete. See more at TheNorthFace.com.

Looking for the nerdy stuff? From The North Face website: 

• Waterproof, breathable, fully seam sealed
• Know Boundaries Snow Safety label
• Recco® avalanche rescue reflector
• PU (polyurethane) asymmetrical front zip
• PU (polyurethane) waterproof, laser-cut, bonded zips
• Adjustable, helmet-compatible fixed hood
• Pit-zip vents
• Wrist accessory pocket with goggle cloth
• Zip hand pockets
• Zip chest pocket
• Internal media security pocket
• Internal goggle pocket
• Zip integration powder skirt
• Hook-and-loop adjustable cuffs
• Detachable powder skirt

When it comes to gloves, I am one picky son-of-a-bitch. There is nothing worse than ill-fitting, less-than-warm, ugly-as-sin gloves. It’s inexcusable. So why are sub-standard gloves so omnipresent in skiing and snowboarding? The answer is simple; no one cares enough to put the time in to design. That is, until now.

The Arc’teryx Vertical SV ($250 CDN) is a short-cuffed version of the Alpha SV gauntlet glove. The North Van company’s meticulous approach to design shines through in the Vertical SV’s simultaneously clean and technical design, and anatomically superior fit. Where as with most gloves I end up cutting off all the ridiculous snaps, cords and buttons that clog up design (seriously, who’s gloves blow off in a crash?), the Vertical SV has nothing but a wide Velcro strap at the wrist to keep the gloves on, and that’s all it needs. In fact, when I go to take them off, I often have to undo the strap before being able to easily do so. The glove features a removable Dri-Fit liner underneath its Gore-Tex exterior.

I was concerned that the short, thin cuff would lead to cold wrists but have found it not to be a problem. That being said, I do use thumb-looped base layer to form a seamless layer between arm and hand. I’m still surprised Arc’teryx jackets don’t feature built-in lycra inserts in the sleeves like some companies do. I find them the easiest and most low profile way to avoid snow up the sleeves.  Of course, this isn’t a review of a jacket, it’s of a kick ass glove that does exactly what it’s supposed to—keeps my hands warm and dry in the coastal climate…not an easy task. At first, the gloves were awkward but soon packed out to the shape of my meat hooks and became like a second skin. In the past three weeks of coastal weather (which brought everything from massive storms to bitter cold to sweaty, swass-inducing warmth) these gloves managed to keep me comfortable. My hands did perspire a bit on the warmer days but I am a sweaty mess on those days anyways, so I don’t blame it on the gloves. Overall, the Vertical Sv performed exactly how I expected it to. It’s a stellar product from a company that knows the details matter, even in the smallest parts of our gear.

Looking for the nerdy tech stuff? Here’s the goods straight from the Arc’teryx site:

“Engineered with Tri-Dex™ Technology. The outer shell and liner both feature a unique finger construction that provides an aggressive, anatomical fit. Snow-shedding laminated cuffs open wide for easy donning/doffing and seals tight with a wide, Velcro® backed cuff tab.”

Check them out here: www.Arcteryx.com

Some of my new copywriting work has shown up, My good friends and associates at Origin Design + Communications hired me to work on this advertisement for Salomon Footwear, and I’m happy with how it turned out. The photography and design is killer, the line is simple, and that’s what makes great advertising. Thanks again to Salomon and Origin. – Mike Berard