Outdoor Research Tiny House Tour- Season 2, Episode 4 | British Columbia Pillows

There is the discovery, when your eyes catch the first glimpse of a pillow line. Your mind quickly assesses the fun factor, believing how easy it will be to effortlessly drop from one marshmallow cloud to the next. Why wouldn't you ski these pillows? You start hiking. At the top, the world looks a bit different. Disorientation follows, as you realize you have no idea where those inviting little puffs actually live. They seem to have crept away leaving you standing with only a visual of the flat snow at the bottom. But you decide to drop in because you've got a feeling that this is something you can do, something that you'll love. You trust the pillows and your ability to make just enough contact with your skis that it counts, but not enough to stop the momentum in the graceful pillow line pseudo fall.

The moment when you point your skis downwards a flash image of the line appears in your mind. One pseudo-turn. Oooh, nice snow—this is going to be memorable. Then, maybe a jolt or two? A face shot mid-line? A flat landing at the bottom? And then it's over. You can't recall every detail of the line. Maybe you can't remember any at all. But the dream state is still with you. Just as it should be, because skiing isn't about overanalyzing. Once you've decided to ski a pillow line, it's see it, feel it, and go.

Words by Molly Baker

Outdoor Research Tiny House Tour- Season 2, Episode 3 in Utah

Every moment in the mountains lends an opportunity to learn. A lifetime education awaits those willing to explore, watch, and listen. And sometimes we meet purveyors of the knowledge, people who have made it their intention to understand the intricacies of the snow, and share what they've learned about the many varieties of a snowflake. These snow aficionados are our greatest educators, devoted to dissecting the element that brings skiers life and death simultaneously.

The tiny house arrived in Utah at the beginning of a storm cycle that would invigorate the mountain community with pow turns, while burying a weak layer in the snowpack that would require trepidation in the backcountry. In the two weeks the tiny house lived in Utah, many slides were seen and experienced by skiers and snowboarders across the Wasatch. Instead of playing their usual roles in this act, they became the audience and learned from a friend of the Utah Avalanche Center, Trent Meisenheimer, a passionate snow safety ambassador who grew up at the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon.

Following Trent and his father Bruce (a man who should be put in the Ski-Loving Father Hall of Fame) into the special ski stashes of the Cottonwoods (yes, they still exist), the OR team investigated their own capacity to learn and re-learn what they already thought they knew. You're never too experienced in the backcountry. And there is always something new to digest.

“Education is the process of living, not preparation for the future.”


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