I Bought the Powder Ski Propaganda. Then I Tried Carving Skis

I should start with a confession. Since I was 12 or 13, I’ve believed that carving skis—those narrow-waisted, parabolic sticks—were the stuff of antiquity and stodgy killjoys who cared more about technique than fun.

It was odd, then, that during a recent trip to Sun Valley, Idaho, I found myself standing atop a groomer with a pair of Volkl Peregrine 82s below my feet. The stocky carvers were far skinnier and shorter than anything I’d ridden in the past decade or two (save the odd pair of park skis). 

My hope, having spent the previous day racing around the resort, was that the rented skis would magically transform me into Mikaela Shiffrin. It didn’t go quite that well.

I leaned over the precipice, quickly lurching into the backseat. To slow down, I threw up sprays of snow, smearing the end of what would otherwise be nicely “C” shaped turns. I couldn’t hang on to my edges without gaining too much speed. I felt out of control. By the end, I was heaving, partially because I was out of shape. I also knew, though, that I had wasted energy trying to brute force my way into the perfect carve.

The 2026 POWDER Photo Annual is here! Look for a print copy on a newsstand near you, or click here to have a copy shipped directly to your front door.

If a younger version of myself caught this circus, he might’ve been disappointed. I came of age as powder skis were really taking off. They were big, floppy, and, most importantly, what I would see in ski movies underneath the feet of my favorite pros. 

The masses had caught on, too. Evolving ski technology and attitude met, sending a resounding message: you should bin those carvers and pick up something with some real heft. After all, how else are you going to ski pillow lines like Sean Pettit? 

I got stuck. I was a freeride skier. Groomers, while fun, were the waiting rooms of the mountains. I rode them to get to the next cliff, line, or gladed stash. A ski that mostly excelled on the frontside seemed silly in the same way as a luxury, fur-lined one-piece. I chose tools that performed best in my favorite terrain, even if they weren’t the plushest ride getting there.

That attitude was tied to an insular mindset. When I was young, my friends and I deemed racers dorky, even though they could probably ski circles around us. Deciding how we, personally, wanted to ski came first—not rulebooks or stopwatches. Plus, we didn’t have to wear skin tight suits. While carving skis aren't explicitly made for running gates, they smacked of the rigidity I avoided.

At least, that's how I saw it. Time, though, can erode the boxes we build around ourselves and others. I eventually tried cross-country skiing—another object of childhood ridicule—and loved it. I started paying attention to World Cup racing, catching up on the epic scenes I'd missed. And as I grew older, those carving skis I’d discounted all those decades ago started speaking to me. A different world, where I might actually tune my skis more than once every three seasons, seemed interesting. 

Sun Valley, it turns out, was a good place to start. It was early February, and the lack of snow was the talk of the town. Still, the resort had retained its calling card: trails that look like a pair of white corduroy pants. I was, probably, in the right place for a dalliance with the other side of skiing.

At the base, I marched into the rental shop, brimming with excitement and nervousness. The array of skinny skis nearly knocked me out. 

I’ve never been a gearhead, but this was different. There was an entire ski market that I knew nothing about. Some were very narrow. Others were relatively wide, but far skinnier than my daily drivers. 

I accepted my role as the uncultured interloper and explained my situation to the rental shop employees, who kindly suggested the Peregrines.

Following my first run with them, I wondered if I’d forgotten how to ski. I’d become too comfortable with my camber-less twin tips that, by mere suggestion, seemed to pivot on their own. In contrast, the new skis bit the snow and didn’t want to let go.

So, I started watching others with better mastery of the groomers. They patiently leaned into each turn. Then, almost standing, they rolled their edges over, the bases of their skis making full contact with the snow for a brief moment. That weightlessness, I decided, is what I was after.

When I relaxed and let them do the work, the new skis helped. They sprang from edge to edge, shooting me across the slope. As I grew more comfortable with them, I also found I could start sprinkling in slashes and little airs, the creative flourishes that first drew me away from racing. 

The Peregrines unlocked a new way of sliding downhill. At the same time, they were lifeless hunks of plastic and metal. They weren’t going to tell me I had to ski in one way or the other—shocker, I know. They just deepened a part of skiing I’d shirked for too long.

And during those carved turns, as the sun beamed from a blue sky overhead, a bundle of neurons somewhere buried within my skull got to work. For the most part, I’d catch them lighting up as I floated through fresh snow. This time, the message they sent came from a different source, but the feeling was the same, and I forgot, for a split second, that anything else existed.