Bark Sandwich
In the utopia of trees, untracked lines stay hidden for days.
Feature
Words by: Leslie Anthony
Photos by: Mattias Fredriksson
Here’s the thing: high-speed groomers can be exciting, dropping into couloirs pretty rad and bouncing down pillow lines divine, but what I love most about skiing is being in the trees during winter.
Whether it’s Japan’s beech forests, Europe’s larch, Norway’s dwarf birch, British Columbia’s giant hemlock and cedar, or Aspen’s... well, aspens... skiing among these trees offers a unique aesthetic compared to skiing in open areas with natural features like bowls and chutes.
Traveling through the hardwood forests of eastern North America, Scandinavia, and Japan offers an experience quite different from the cozy warmth and towering spires of conifers. Growing up skiing in Ontario, Quebec, and Vermont, I spent much time in the trees on my downhill skis or cross-country boards. Besides being a way to enjoy the simple beauty of a winter day, I was connecting with the forest in its most elemental form: just the trees—forget the noise and floral display of summer. I’ll admit, the hardwoods weren’t for everyone: they were more like rough bouncers at an exclusive club, ready to turn away anyone who didn’t belong—and a guarded honour guard welcoming those who did. But if you liked powder at all, it was a club worth joining—ask the skiers at places like Sutton, Jay Peak, Mad River Glen or Stowe.
Jordy Kidner takes flight between the trees in the Shames Mountain backcountry, near Terrace, British Columbia.
Elle Cochrane is about to drop into a dream run at Shames Mountain, British Columbia.
Jordy Kidner takes flight between the trees in the Shames Mountain backcountry, near Terrace, British Columbia.
Elle Cochrane is about to drop into a dream run at Shames Mountain, British Columbia.
Skiing through hardwoods felt like moving through a world of suspended animation, much was happening around you—stories being woven within the wood of hibernating creatures and burrowing insects, with hormones flowing through roots, ready to send sap rushing upward at the first sign of warmth. And yet, apart from an occasional creak in the wind, all this activity unfolds in silence. Moving among trees in winter is like entering a realm inhabited by beings whose watchful nature is their very charm—as if they both evoke experience and observe it. Perhaps they do.
I often remind people that the human genome contains about 20,000 genes, whereas a poplar tree has roughly 45,000. What does it imply when fewer genes are responsible for the complexity of the human brain than for a piece of wood? Perhaps, when it comes to DNA, qualities like wisdom, stoicism, and vigilance are more hard-won than mobility; recent scientific research shows us that trees can learn and communicate through their roots via underground fungal networks—and not just with trees of the same species. Since these root-fungus connections function much like animal neural networks, navigating through forests is like exploring a large-scale collective brain.
In British Columbia, where I now live, I still love skiing among the trees, and I enjoy the many shapes they take—from hunched snow ghosts to towering alabaster arrows of unlikely symmetry. It’s easy to see these statuesque figures as living beings that have stepped out of everyday life for a while, their snow-covered forms reflecting the power of winter. In fact, the famous author Lewis Carroll probably thought so when he wrote: I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snugly, you know, with a white quilt, and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.
But such a perspective would be misguided: the winter forest is very much alive and welcoming.
Few ski resorts in the United States can match Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and the tree skiing is truly incredible.
Forests with old-growth trees offer good spacing and excellent skiing. Chad Sayers is captured on a deep day at Shames Mountain, B.C.
Few ski resorts in the United States can match Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and the tree skiing is truly incredible.
Forests with old-growth trees offer good spacing and excellent skiing. Chad Sayers is captured on a deep day at Shames Mountain, B.C.
For skiers, trees provide shelter in storms; for the snow that slips into them, they act as fragrant filters and natural preservatives, reducing the impact of wind, sun, and freeze-thaw cycles. Microclimates also play a role: a mountain that spends much time in the cloud deck, with its peak often hidden, tends to accumulate significantly more snow than neighbouring peaks. Such places—which I’d include my home of Whistler among—are where the fluffy turns beneath the branches define the mountain’s character.
Hitting the treeline as you descend from the alpine offers an exhilarating introduction to the forest. You start by zigzagging through a welcome mat of krumholtz and other tightly packed miniature trees. Still, as you move downslope and larger trees become more prominent, the landscape opens up—though never enough to make the next move completely clear. This is where the “game” takes over. Even where visibility is good, tree skiing remains about decisions, discovery, and endless permutations: make a turn around one, a new line comes into view, and suddenly everything looks different; your next turn repeats the pattern; then it happens again, much like a high-speed video game testing both your reflexes and mental agility. Throughout, the slope unfolds over the mountain's natural contours, guided by lines that follow the logic of topography and water—a sense, you learn, that the trees also follow.
For many years, I was guilty of what I’ve alluded to: simply skiing through these snow-covered trees, looking for lines and paying little attention to what I dismissed as a silent struggle for spring. But a few years ago, some more reading on tree biology gave me a different impression.
David Kantermo in that weightless moment between turns in Montana Bowl in the Revelstoke backcountry.
Stellar Heli in Kaslo, British Columbia, is renowned as one of the top destinations globally when it comes to the tree skiing.
The statuesque quality of our mountain trees reflects millions of years of evolution and the selective influence of the Ice Ages, rather than just our current weather. You see, the west coast’s firs, spruces, and cedars—even mighty redwoods and sequoias—are snow trees, carefully crafted by nature in both form and function to withstand and make use of the snow. With a heavy load, their apical symmetry sheds just enough to let the branches bend without breaking. In cold weather, they hold enough snow to protect their buds, and the melting snow from branches drips in a circle, nourishing roots that need a steady moisture supply over winter. Truly, the entire story of a snow tree’s spring, summer, and fall is written as you ski past it in winter.
In a way, I’ve come to see that many of the trees I spend time with have adapted to “like” snow. And if that can’t make a skier love them even more, nothing can.
Trees you should know
European larch—Unusually sparse for a conifer, these trees create delightfully open slopes with clear sightlines. Their native range covers the Alps and the Caucasus Mountains, where they form extensive high-altitude forests—particularly on south-facing slopes. Many European ski areas feature larch skiing, but destinations like Courmayeur and Argentera in Italy, Grimentz and Bruson in Switzerland, and Serre Chevalier and Montgenèvre in France are quietly renowned for it.
Japanese beech trees—These twisted and gnarled trees, resembling something out of Dr. Seuss, are common in many off-piste ski photos from Japan. In summer, the slopes can resemble jungles, with beech trees emerging through the greenery. However, during winter’s deep snow cover, the dense understory is flattened, creating enough space for legendary high-speed skiing in places like Niseko, Kiroro on Hokkaido’s northern island, and Seki and Nozawa Onsen in the Japanese Alps of Honshu. The key is to find an off-piste area that respects local sensitivities to kami—forest spirits linked to Shinto Buddhism—while causing minimal disturbance.
Canadian conifers—The troika of mountain spruce, fir, and hemlock—whether entirely covered in snow like ghostly spires or topped with massive yet precarious snow bombs that fall on sunny days—delivers the movie-quality powder you envision when thinking of steep-and-deep British Columbia. The most legendary stands, with hundreds of vertical metres of descent, can be found at any heli- or cat-skiing operation. Still, excellent glades can be found everywhere, from Shames Mountain in the north through Revelstoke Mountain Resort in the Interior to the coastal giant Whistler Blackcomb on the south coast.
Dwarf birch—shrinks down and dominates the hardwood forests of eastern North America. The Scandinavian version, which grows much further north and often endures harsher weather, offers a miniature, Tolkien-like video game of whack-a-skier. But it's definitely the real deal when you find the right lines in places like Åre, Sweden, and Sogndal, Norway.
Hardwood forests— The mostly deciduous forests of maple, oak, and birch in northeastern North America can be dense and tough or open and inviting. But if you want to ski through trees in the region, that's usually what’s available, and good conditions at the right time can provide lots of enjoyment. Check out glade-friendly spots like Le Massif and Sutton in Quebec, or Jay Peak, Stowe, and Mad River Glen in Vermont. Be cautious of drip lines hanging between maple trees in spring in low-angle forests, as they can catch their syrup.
Wild cards: The sunlit aspen groves in Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico generally thrive on flat terrain but allow good cruising; the massive old-growth pine and fir forests in the Pirin Mountains of Bansko, Bulgaria, have spaces wide enough to drive a truck through; Krasnaya Polyana, Russia, features steep and dense trees like you wouldn’t believe — though scattered with sinkhole caverns that can disrupt your day; in the southern hemisphere, explore the famed forests of Cerro Catedral in Bariloche, Argentina, or the broccoli-like eucalyptus stands at any Australian resort.
European larch—Unusually sparse for a conifer, these trees create delightfully open slopes with clear sightlines. Their native range covers the Alps and the Caucasus Mountains, where they form extensive high-altitude forests—particularly on south-facing slopes. Many European ski areas feature larch skiing, but destinations like Courmayeur and Argentera in Italy, Grimentz and Bruson in Switzerland, and Serre Chevalier and Montgenèvre in France are quietly renowned for it.
Japanese beech trees—These twisted and gnarled trees, resembling something out of Dr. Seuss, are common in many off-piste ski photos from Japan. In summer, the slopes can resemble jungles, with beech trees emerging through the greenery. However, during winter’s deep snow cover, the dense understory is flattened, creating enough space for legendary high-speed skiing in places like Niseko, Kiroro on Hokkaido’s northern island, and Seki and Nozawa Onsen in the Japanese Alps of Honshu. The key is to find an off-piste area that respects local sensitivities to kami—forest spirits linked to Shinto Buddhism—while causing minimal disturbance.
Canadian conifers—The troika of mountain spruce, fir, and hemlock—whether entirely covered in snow like ghostly spires or topped with massive yet precarious snow bombs that fall on sunny days—delivers the movie-quality powder you envision when thinking of steep-and-deep British Columbia. The most legendary stands, with hundreds of vertical metres of descent, can be found at any heli- or cat-skiing operation. Still, excellent glades can be found everywhere, from Shames Mountain in the north through Revelstoke Mountain Resort in the Interior to the coastal giant Whistler Blackcomb on the south coast.
Dwarf birch—shrinks down and dominates the hardwood forests of eastern North America. The Scandinavian version, which grows much further north and often endures harsher weather, offers a miniature, Tolkien-like video game of whack-a-skier. But it's definitely the real deal when you find the right lines in places like Åre, Sweden, and Sogndal, Norway.
Hardwood forests— The mostly deciduous forests of maple, oak, and birch in northeastern North America can be dense and tough or open and inviting. But if you want to ski through trees in the region, that's usually what’s available, and good conditions at the right time can provide lots of enjoyment. Check out glade-friendly spots like Le Massif and Sutton in Quebec, or Jay Peak, Stowe, and Mad River Glen in Vermont. Be cautious of drip lines hanging between maple trees in spring in low-angle forests, as they can catch their syrup.
Wild cards: The sunlit aspen groves in Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico generally thrive on flat terrain but allow good cruising; the massive old-growth pine and fir forests in the Pirin Mountains of Bansko, Bulgaria, have spaces wide enough to drive a truck through; Krasnaya Polyana, Russia, features steep and dense trees like you wouldn’t believe — though scattered with sinkhole caverns that can disrupt your day; in the southern hemisphere, explore the famed forests of Cerro Catedral in Bariloche, Argentina, or the broccoli-like eucalyptus stands at any Australian resort.
LESLIE ANTHONY is a writer and editor who knows a thing or two about snow. Longtime Creative Director of SKIER, former Managing Editor of POWDER, and author of the book White Planet: A Mad Dash Through Modern Global Ski Culture, the resident of Whistler, British Columbia, continues to appear regularly on the masthead of the world’s top ski magazines. His favorite activity? Skiing powder, of course.
LESLIE ANTHONY is a writer and editor who knows a thing or two about snow. Longtime Creative Director of SKIER, former Managing Editor of POWDER, and author of the book White Planet: A Mad Dash Through Modern Global Ski Culture, the resident of Whistler, British Columbia, continues to appear regularly on the masthead of the world’s top ski magazines. His favorite activity? Skiing powder, of course.
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