TELEMARK SKIING
by Tom Hagin
"Free your heels, free your head." This is the apothegm of telemark
skiers, seemingly a coterie of funky, relaxed winter-lovers. At Bear
Valley Ski Area in Bear Valley, California, I opted to join their ranks,
spending a day freeing my inner soul atop telemark skis, attempting
telemarking's same rhythmic turns and graceful knee-drops. My skiing
skills helped, but I found the harmonious path blocked by gravity.
"Telemark skiing is changing. It's no longer pine cones and
granola-eaters anymore. All ages and social groups are trying it," said
Bear Valley Cross Country President and PSIA instructor Paul Petersen.
"But choose your terrain carefully when you begin. Groomed snow and easy
beginner runs are preferred."
History says telemark skiing evolved from ski jumping in Norway. The
telltale knee-drop technique was necessary for stability during
landings. Only later was it realized that the telemark ski could be used
for the backcountry and mountaineering, its light weight and unattached
heels well-suited for moving through undulating terrain. And while the
'70s experienced an upsurge in the sport, only recently has it appeared
in significant numbers. Estimates put total metal-edged nordic ski sales
at 20,000 pairs annually - about 10 percent of the nordic ski business.
Better equipment and instruction contributes to the sport's popularity.
Originally, telemark equipment included sloppy, leather lace-up
boots, connected by weak bindings to long, stiff skis that took years of
practice to master. Now, according to Petersen "it's time to get rid of
the twin towers, and get into something a bit shorter." Measuring
telemark skis involved having the skier extend his or her arm upward,
the correct length reaching the palm. They are now sized a bit longer
than alpine skis, and many aficionados simply attach telemark bindings
to soft-flexing alpine skis.
Sliding from the chair wearing telemark skis wasn't as life-
threatening as the first time I tried snowboarding, and only a few wedge
turns were needed to negotiate the fallen skiers and snowboarders strewn
about the exit ramp. My first couple of turns felt wobbly and
uncomfortable. Petersen made sure we slid along slowly, imitating slight
wedge turns and instilling of the fundamental skills needed to keep us
free from first aid treatment. Bear Valley had prepared its slopes the
night before to resemble a rolling carpet, perfect for the novice
learning a new alpine sport. Since there were no excuses due to terrain,
I felt obligated to try my hardest to not look foolish.
Unlike Alpine skiing, where the downhill ski does most of the work,
the telemark turn requires that both skis be equally weighted. "Telemark
skiers need to learn to weight both skis evenly and pull the inside leg
back and hold it there throughout the turn," Petersen added. "Remember -
sink and steer - sink and steer." It's important to remain balanced on
the ball (front) of the foot, while exerting pressure with the big toe
on the front ski, and the little toe on the trailing ski. We desperately
tried to keep the trailing ski controlled, as it flapped around crazily.
Bear Valley's slopes were hard-packed, but the ski's steel edges bit
heartily into the snow's machine-tilled top layer. After several tries,
I was telemarking. Rod, my partner, however, being - well - more
"mature" than I, wasn't faring as well, but had a wide grin visible from
the summit of Porridge Bowl. I felt it was time to break from the
lesson, and try my hand at the tougher stuff.
My descent down Bear's "backside" began cleanly, with about half of
my turns being correct. Sink and steer - his words reverberated through
my head and as the slope began to drop, I picked up speed. Left-right --
left again -- I was really grooving until I hit some ice. Then I slammed
down face-first. Luckily, it didn't hurt, but I found myself staring at
my ski's tips, which were spread in a V-shape, still flat on the snow,
just like my face. Hardly a world-class run, but I vowed to return,
having been bitten by the telemarking bug.
