|
|
This post was updated on .
Fixed it for you:
Noah John wrote
Posting lame insults on the internet is beyond lame...
Trouble is, Skimore's pictures are quite good, and people seem to like them. Except you, of course, and you apparently are the arbiter of taste here. You know, Noah John, we get it. We understand that you have some bone to pick with Skimore. So get over it. If you don't like his posts, don't look at them. Go somewhere else. AlpineZone, for example, where you are warned if a thread contains pictures.
The Internet is an open form (and forum) of communication and last time I checked, a picture was still worth a thousand words. In Noah's world, we would all still be on UseNet and Gopher, trying to explain our stoke in mere words. This is fine if you can write like Hemingway but most of us can't, so we use pictures to convey our enthusiasm for our chosen sport and the places we ski.
Try and write a trip report like this:
An excerpt from Cross-country Snow by Ernest Hemingway. From "The Nick Adams Stories."
The funicular car bucked once more and then stopped. It could not go farther, the snow drifted solidly across the track. The gale scouring the exposed surface of the mountain had swept the snow surface into a wind-board crust. Nick, waxing his skis in the baggage car, pushed his boots into the toe irons and shut the clamp tight. He jumped from the car sideways on to the hard wind-board, made a jump turn, and crouching and trailing his sticks slipped in a rush down the slope.
On the white below George dipped and rose and dipped out of sight. The rush and the sudden swoop as he dropped down a steep undulation in the mountainside plucked Nick’s mind out and left him only the wonderful flying, dropping sensation in his body. He rose to a slight up-run and then the snow seemed to drop out from under him as he went down, down, faster and faster in a rush down the last, long steep slope. Crouching so he was almost sitting back on his skis, trying to keep the center of gravity low, the snow driving like a sandstorm, he knew the pace was too much. But he held it. He would not let go and spill. Then a patch of soft snow, left in a hollow by the wind, spilled him and he went over and over in a clashing of skis, feeling like a shot rabbit, then stuck, his legs crossed, his skis sticking straight up and his nose and ears jammed full of snow. George stood a little farther down the slope, knocking the snow from his wind jacket with big slaps.
‘You took a beauty, Mike,’ he called to Nick. ‘That’s lousy soft snow. It bagged me the same way.’
‘What’s it like over the khud ?’ Nick kicked his skis around as he lay on his back and stood up.
‘You’ve got to keep to your left. It’s a good fast drop with a Christy at the bottom on account of fence.’
‘Wait a sec and we’ll take it together.’
‘No, you come and go first. I like to see you take the khuds.’
Nick Adams came up past George, big back and blond head still faintly snowy, then his skis started slipping at the edge and he swooped down, hissing in the crystalline powder snow and seeming to float up and down as he went up and down the billowing khuds. He held to his left at the end, as he rushed toward the fence, keeping his knees locked tight together and turning his body like tightening a screw brought his skis sharply around to the right in a smoother of snow and slowed into a loss of speed parallel to the hillside and the wire fence. He looked up to the hill. George was coming down telemark position, kneeling; one leg forward and bent, the other trailing; his sticks hanging like some insect’s thin legs, kicking up puffs of snow as the touched the surface and finally the whole kneeling, trailing figure coming around in a beautiful right curve, crouching, the legs shot forward and back, the body leaning out against the swing, the sticks accenting the curve like points of light, all in a wild cloud of snow.
‘I was afraid to Christy,’ George said, ‘the snow was too deep. You made a beauty.’
‘I can’t telemark with my leg,’ Nick said.
Nick held down the top strand of the wire fence with his ski and George slid over. Nick followed him down the road. They thrust bent-kneed along the road into a pine forest. The road became polished ice, stained orange and a tobacco yellow from the teams hauling logs. The skiers kept to the stretch along the side. The road dipped sharply to a stream and then ran straight- up-hill. Through the woods they could see a long, low-eaved, weather-beaten building. Through the trees it was painted green. The paint was peeling. Nick knocked his clamps loose with one of his ski sticks and kicked off the skis.
‘We might as well carry them up there,’ he said.
He climbed the steep road with the skis on his shoulder, kicking his heel nails into the icy footing. He heard George breathing and kicking in his heels just behind him. They stacked the skis against the side of the inn and slapped the snow off each other’s trousers, stamped their boots clean, and went in..... and so on.
I'm afraid I will have to stick with pictures, lame or otherwise.
|
Locked
