
The Moments Between
Skiing and ski travel are about so much more than just the skiing alone. Sometimes, the most memorable moments are the ones when we’re not skiing. One of the world’s most experienced ski writers reflects on what really matters when it comes to sliding down snow-covered mountains.
Words by Tobias Liljeroth Photos by Oskar Enander
(Feature story from the Field Book Issue 1)
As a ski writer, I’ve been fortunate enough to travel the world in pursuit of the best skiing and the deepest snow. I’ve visited places and skied down mountains that most skiers can only dream about. To make things even better, most of the time it’s been on someone else’s expense. In my defence, however, before working in ski media, I was a proper ski bum. I stayed in dirty, crowded flats and motel rooms in the Alps or the Rockies, and I spent all my money and devoted all my effort to arranging those months of skiing every winter.
I’ve floated through the weightless powder in Alta, Utah, skied through waist-deep snow between the Buna trees of Japan, trembled with fear on the steeps of La Grave in France, enjoyed the thrill of heliskiing in British Columbia, slid through perfect firn under the midnight sun in northern Sweden, felt the burn in my legs at the bottom of a perfect Laub in Engelberg in Switzerland, and so much more. “Perfect” skiing moments that I’ll cherish forever, moments that made up for all the hard work and sacrifices it took to get there. Getting to experience those moments has costed me career opportunities, broken relationships, and more injuries than I want to remember.
Was it worth it? Yes, without a doubt. As a kid, I daydreamt about the day when I’d be able to make an effortless turn in deep powder, like the skiers I grew up idolising in the ski magazines that I kept in a stack on my bedside table. The reality I ended up living was, it turned out, even better. Eventually, I became one of those people in the photos I used to look at, or in the stories I read.

Although my life as a skier is not over by any means, writing this story has given me cause to reflect on things and look back at my life in skiing. What this has made clear to me is that the things I remember the most vividly aren’t the actual skiing, but everything else.
Wild nights pogo-dancing to noisy punk bands at the pub in La Grave, driving for hours and hours through the wasteland of the Nevada desert, the pure chaos on the road between Tangmarg and Gulmarg in Kashmir, the jarring, metallic chill of an AK-47 against my throat as the soldier who owned it slept in the back seat on that very same road, road-tripping by bus through the southwest of British Columbia, watching junior hockey in Revelstoke, watching NHL hockey in Calgary, bathing in wonderfully stinky onsens on Hokkaido, eating the best sushi of my life at a conveyor belt restaurant in a basement in Shibuya in Tokyo, sleeping on top of my ski bag at the Milan train station, surrounded by 500 Bayern Münich fans after a Champions League game, driving through the evergreen, up to Mt Baker in the state of Washington, being stuck on a remote island in Lofoten in Norway, being picked up by a grumpy, but helpful local fisherman from said island in Lofoten in Norway, sitting through a 16-hour bus trip through the heart of the Pampas in Argentina, eating asado in Buenos Aires, eating delicious pasta in Courmayeur in Italy, having après beers in the sun and… well, that’s just scratching the surface.
I will remember all these experiences forever, and the thing they have in common is that I would never have ended up in any of those places and situations if it wasn’t for skiing. At times, it’s been uncomfortable, lonely, and occasionally even scary. But it has also been extremely rewarding, and a massive learning experience where I’ve had to step out of my comfort zone a thousand times over.
More importantly, though, some of the people I’ve met along the way have become friends for life. We share deep bonds that go beyond the ordinary, born out of a mutual passion and sharing special times of our lives in places we’ve chosen to travel to. We’ve grown together, both as skiers and as human beings. We’ve faced our fears together, and seen unfathomable tragedy up close. We’ve laughed together, and been as happy as humans can be. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions, shared with people that have become almost like family to me.
But there are also a myriad of other friends and acquaintances that I’ve made along the way, in various parts of the world. The ski bum contingent is like a tribe; we may live on different continents, but we are tied together by our shared love for deep snow and steep faces, and our urge to break free of the treadmill of “normal” society.

As it turns out, ski life is not only about the actual skiing. Yes, skiing is the main reason why I ended up in all those places and on top of all those mountains in the first place, but the life outside of skiing was what drove me deeper into this world.
You see, making a powder turn in Valais in Switzerland isn’t really that different from making a powder turn on Hokkaido in Japan, or in the Pacific Northwest of North America. But the food, the people, the culture, the scenery, and the mountains on the other hand are wildly different depending on where you go. I’ve come to realise that skiing is all about context, and that what really matters is where I ski, and with whom. It’s never really been about the actual performance, or just linking turns together.
For me, skiing is all about feelings, emotions, and quality, not performance and quantity. I used to think it was obvious that skiing 10,000 vertical metres in one day would always be better than skiing 7,000. With time, however, I’ve come to realise that getting a single, perfect run in is far better than chasing up and down the lifts all day long. These days, I’m perfectly happy to turn down another run if I know that the one we just did isn’t going to be topped today. Call me old, call me lazy if you want – I don’t care.

As skiers, we’re often led to believe that more is always more, and that deeper snow, more runs, faster skiing, and “better” skiing are always positives. Resorts all over the world are installing faster and more efficient lifts, propelling more skiers to the top of the mountain quicker than before.
Some of my best times at ski resorts, on the other hand, have been in slow gondolas or even slower chairlifts, chatting with great friends as gigantic snowflakes fall from the sky and our anticipation over our next run builds up. Other times, I’ve been perfectly happy to dangle 10 metres above the ground in a single-seater chairlift on Hokkaido, just taking in the sights and reflecting on how I ended up there in the first place. Some days, I find myself enjoying just sitting by myself in an empty chairlift at my home ski area, thinking about life, and not wanting the lift ride to end just yet.
Slow down, you’re not in the big city. Yes, someone else might make a few tracks before you, but who cares? All that matters is how you feel when it’s time to make your turns, and getting stressed out won’t improve your experience in any way. After all, ski life isn’t about skiing. It’s about living life. Your way.
