“No friends on a powder day” is a line I have found myself uttering when leaving my wife to flounder in a tree well in waist deep snow, with the prospect of having to fight off a bear, assuming she survives the cold and the avalanche risk is overstated.
The Darwinian instincts that are catalysed by the stress of a powder day lead to the kind of me-first behaviour that you’d expect of a commodities trader, not a free-living actions sports enthusiast who favours expression sessions over competition.
On a powder day, whilst you might high-five a buddy, you would only do so if he came down the mountain behind you. If he snaked your line whilst you were still cranking your bindings, you will be calling him a word that Shaun White reserves for when he is talking about the Frends crew. Be honest… if, faced with a choice between scoring some fresh tracks or spending 20 minutes helping your mate find his goggles after he’s ragdolled…you know what you’d do.
Slush days on the other hand have the highest ratio of high-fives and bro-hugs to distance covered on the mountain. Everyone is happy to hang, take turns, share the love of the shred. If a mate breaks his bindings, the crew won’t disappear without him, instead they’ll all do one-footers for a couple of hours to show solidarity. Slush = friends.
Powder days are ultimately like masturbating in a locked, dark room surrounded by all the Easter eggs that you stole from your siblings. There’s no sharing unless you absolutely have to.