Get Those Fat Guys
On Their Fat Skis
Out of Our Snow
---
Irate Powderhounds Denounce
`Big Wiener' Technology
That Opens Up the Slopes

By Alex Markels
Staff Reporter of The Wall Street Journal
03/03/95

BOUNTIFUL, Utah -- As the helicopter that lifted him to a remote Utah mountain-top roars out of sight, Joe Sommer takes a deep breath, aims his "fat boy" skis downhill and launches himself into a ravine filled with virgin snow.

"Yaaaaahoooo," the portly New Jersey computer reseller hollers, peering back at the S-shaped tracks he has just carved in the powder with his superwide skis. "Not bad for a desk-chained slouch," he says later, a wide grin filling his face.

Mr. Sommer's glee makes his friends cringe. "Fat skis are for fat people," mutters John Cooney, a trim, expert skier who must work twice as hard as Mr. Sommer to descend through the thick snowfield on his conventional skis.

Thanks to the invention of fat skis, thousands of ordinary skiers are discovering the joy of skiing on powder snow. Found predominantly in the West, where high altitudes and low humidity create dry, airy snowflakes, the coveted, fresh-fallen powder buries rocks and trees under a featherweight cushion. Powder is a frolic for experienced skiers but treacherous for those who lack the skill and stamina to maneuver through it.

While traditional skis submarine beneath the surface of deep powder, causing the uninitiated to lose control and fall face first, the double-width fat skis float on top of the deep, back-country snows. Just as the oversized tennis racket and the "Big Bertha" golf club revolutionized their sports, the beefy boards let even terminal intermediates schuss the rugged wilderness as easily as if they were skiing a machine-packed resort slope.

But the skis are infuriating long-time powderhounds who now find the chubby hoi polloi invading their cherished snowfields. After devoting years to mastering and chasing the precious powder, traditionalists say the very notion of "easy" powder skiing tears at their souls. Claiming powder skiing as a right that must be earned, they denounce the skis as "training wheels," and their narcissistic proponents as "cheaters."

"They're the death of resort powder skiing," says Andrew Slough, a Sun Valley, Idaho, local and an ardent Luddite when it comes to breakthrough ski technology. "Today was one of only a handful of big powder days we've had this year, but the mountain was tracked by 10 a.m.!" he complains. "Before fat skis, intermediates would say, `Let me out of here!' Now my favorite runs are full of greasy-haired executives and rich old women with big wieners on their feet."

And talk about manners. Fat skiers haphazardly zigzag across the hills, destroying the untracked snow that powderhounds crave and ruining the tight, symmetrical S-turns they leave as their signatures. When Tom Winter recently saw an older woman meandering across his path in Vail, Colorado's famed Back Bowls, he began screaming at her. "It was totally pathetic," says Mr. Winter, a local ski-shop technician. "People on fat skis totally miss the point. Powder skiing is an art form. But instead of a brush, they're using a paint roller."

The genesis of fat skis doesn't enhance their image. For decades, most ski-design innovations have trickled down from racers, yielding skis with increased precision and control at high speeds. By comparison, fat skis were developed from snowboards (snow-going skateboards that traditional skiers despise) for a single purpose: fun. After observing snowboarders' ability to float on powder, Austrian ski designer Rupert Huber cut a snowboard down the middle and mounted bindings on each half.

The first such fat skis to be sold were superwide and lacked the subtle hourglass shape that allows conventional skis to carve turns on packed snow. While perfect for powder, the fatties were dangerously unstable on groomed trails. Manufacturers have since refined the shape, with impressive results. Several hybrid models sold out this year, and retailers attending this week's Ski Industries of America trade show in Las Vegas are expected to stock up.

Because they require far less effort to maneuver in powder and other challenging snow conditions, fat skis can add years to a skier's career -- good news for an anemic industry struggling to keep an aging skier population on the slopes. Some ski schools now teach beginners on the skis because they are so stable. Since the fat skis are as useful in gloppy, end-of-season snow as in midwinter powder, they also can add precious days to the ski season.

But most important, fat boards allow occasional skiers to experience the ecstasy of powder skiing, a sure way to turn enthusiasts into zealots. As Mr. Winter puts it, "Powder skiing is like sinking a 40-foot putt to win the U.S. Open again and again, all day long." Indeed, some less-than-expert skiers feel so elated on fat skis that they will brave the powder in back-country areas only accessible by helicopter or on cross-country skis. Heli-skiing operators say they have seen a 50% increase in patronage since 1990, thanks largely to fat skis.

Critics worry that fat-ski euphoria may make fledglings dangerously overconfident. "You feel like you can take more risks," admits novelist Amy Tan, who says she broke a leg last winter "because I had gotten so cocky on my fat skis."

Just the same, the 43-year-old author of "The Joy Luck Club" describes the skis as "better than a face lift." At Squaw Valley, Calif., she says, "I ran into a group of young Silicon Valley types -- the kind who still think they have disposable body parts. We got to an experts-only run, and I said, `Let's go down this.'" While Ms. Tan easily descended the slope and waited at the bottom, she says, "They were falling every third turn. One guy looked like he'd been splattered with a thousand cream pies."

Still, scornful traditionalists liken fat skis to mopeds; fun to ride, but an embarrassment to be seen on. Besides, because fat skiers ride on top of the snow, they can't indulge in the ultimate powder sensation: the face shot. Narrow boards dive under the surface, churning it up and engulfing the skier from head to toe in an exploding cloud of fluffy powder.

"On conventional skis, you're part of the mountain, you're not just riding on top of it," says Greg Lewis, a sports commentator for CBS and an Aspen resident. "On fat skis, you don't get the same sense of intimacy with the snow."

For the stout Mr. Sommer, however, such criticism falls on deaf ears. "I was graceful, and I was gliding, and I was floating, and I was yaahoooing," he says after devouring 15,000 vertical feet without a sigh. "But my friends were, like, `Uggghhh! Uggghhh!' lifting heavily and dropping into the snow on every turn."

"I was definitely working harder than Joe," admits Matthew Crane, a Breckenridge, Colo., ski patroller who toughed it out with his regular skis. "At one point, I felt like I was in labor. But instead of a baby, I gave birth to a hernia."

Their friend Mr. Cooney remains unconvinced. "I worked hard, but I figure I got better turns in," he counters as he eyeballs the gloating Mr. Sommer. "I could maneuver into stuff the fat skiers couldn't get their fat tails into."

"Like that gully you got stuck in?" Mr. Sommer snaps.

(See related letter: "Letters to the Editor: Lookin' Good On Fat Skis" -- WSJ March 29, 1995)