What I Learned Testing 15 Pairs of Skis in 5 Days

Last week, alongside a crew of hardworking testers, POWDER shacked up in Grand Targhee, Wyoming. For five days straight, we skied, bullsh*tted, and dissected next season’s gear. 

While the detailed reviews of those skis won’t be released until next fall, my mind was spinning afterward, and I had some thoughts to share. For a nascent tester like myself, the experience led to a few realizations.

Some had to do with the skis themselves; others involved skiing more broadly—here’s what I learned after stepping into 15 different pairs of skis in one week.

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Skis Can Change Your Perspective (and Style)

Somewhere along your skiing journey, you’ve probably heard a refrain that sounds like this: “There are no bad skis, just bad skiers.” If you’re really good, you can make any pair of skis sing, the curmudgeonly thinking goes. 

All the floofy specifics of ski design, then, are just that: fodder for over thinkers (I would know) or people looking for excuses (ditto). The shape, length, and width don’t have that much bearing on the skiing you actually do.

I can’t totally dismantle this premise. There are people out there, probably, who could backflip Corbet’s Couloir on a pair of sticks made for ski jumping. For a more realistic perspective, consider that decades ago, people were hucking cliffs and helicopters on straight planks.

At the same time, over the past week, I found a counterpoint: the Armada Whitewalker 108. Earlier, I heard from another tester that they reminded him of rollerblades or ice skates. That piqued my interest—I have a soft spot for weird stuff—so I took the skis out for a few laps.

They didn’t, of course, make me a better skier, but the Whitewalkers did change how I ski. They were nimble and stiff yet couldn’t hold an edge very well. After fumbling around for a bit, I tried a different approach than usual. I tossed my usual “dad turns” and leaned back, emphasizing looseness rather than rigidity.

The Whitewalkers came alive. They turned sideways at the slightest twitch of my ankles. In the air, they felt weightless. Back on the snow, they had enough of a backbone to get me out of a pinch. Rather than “skiing” in the traditional sense, I rolled down the mountain like water.

It was eye-opening and, to me, proof that spending an afternoon on a distinct pair of skis can be transformative. My advice? If you ever have the opportunity to try skis you’d usually skip (demo days are your friend), you should. It might alter the way you look at the mountains.

Skis Are More Approachable Than Ever

As much as I loved the Whitewalkers, I wouldn’t recommend them to every skier. That isn’t the case for many of the other skis I tried, though.

From Dynastar to Salomon, skis with “autopilot” are everywhere. Here’s what I mean: skis that are so approachable that they almost ski for you, regardless of the conditions. 

And somehow, thanks to some kind of ski construction wizardry, this trait doesn’t come with many drawbacks. The Salomon QST 106, a ski I liked a lot, was a plush off-piste ride that could still lay down a pretty mean carve.

This is fantastic news for ski buyers. Through years of technological evolution, we’ve finally arrived at the lofty “quiver killer” ideal adored by marketers and copywriters alike (okay, we probably got there a decade ago, but still). Expansive gear closets are great, but you really can get by with one or two pairs if you want, no fussing around required.

Skis Are Rorschach Tests

I’m not a large man. On at least one occasion, a tester who was bigger than me assured me that the skis I was about to try, despite nearing 190 centimeters, “turned really easily.”

Dear reader, for me, they did not turn really easily. I felt grateful that I didn’t end up in a tree well.

On the flip side, another skier, who was smaller than I, said that one pair required strong technique. I had the opposite experience. At my height and weight, those 180-centimeter skis were loose, bouncy, and playful.

Those incongruencies, probably, can be explained by basic physics: a ski’s length relative to the size of its pilot can completely change how it behaves. 

I suspect more was at play, though. None of us meets a new ski in a vacuum. Our preferences, style, and skill level collide with these lifeless assemblages, and a relationship forms. Sometimes it goes well. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes a fling becomes a long-term affair.

There’s no way to perfect this equation. In advance, you can’t know with certainty whether love or hate will emerge, even with those “quiver killers.” That can make buying skis frustrating, but I also think it’s part of the fun, both as a skier and observer. Clicking into a pair of skis that feel like they were made for you is magic, especially when it’s unexpected. There’s a slot-machine-like thrill to the unknown.

I felt that myself last week. I also saw it happen to other people. On one pair, they were struggling. Then, on the next lap, they’d rip down to the group, a grin stitched to their face. “Oh,” I’d say. “You liked that one.” But I didn’t really need to say it. You could tell by the way they were skiing that they’d found a new best friend.

This Is the Year of Brand-Defying (or Defining?) Skis

Two new lines provoked much of the curiosity at our ski test: Blizzard’s Canvas and Armada’s Antimatter. 

As a quick primer, Blizzard, in recent history, has mostly been about burly all-mountain chargers. Armada leans in the opposite direction, with a reputation for pliable jib sticks.

For these brands, the Canvas and the Antimatter are, in some ways, a 180.

The Canvas skis are soft, energetic, and light, bouncing out of turns and encouraging tail presses and nosebutters. The Antimatters, meanwhile, have the surfy shape and vibe of an Armada, but are absolute steamrollers when they need to be.

While the Canvas is fresh for Blizzard, they echo the past. For one, they are reminiscent—at least somewhat—of a now-shelved Blizzard model, the Gunsmoke. They also recall all the other softer, less buttoned-up twin-tips I grew up on. Personally, taking a spin with the 118s provided a much-needed nostalgia trip. 

On the other hand, the Antimatter 114s gave me an identity crisis, but not in a bad way. It was fun to be trucking along on some weighty skis, only to glance down, catch Armada’s distinctive top sheets, and huck them into a slash. A year or two ago, if you told me that some of the stoutest skis I would try at a test would be Armadas, I would’ve laughed. 

That novelty is exciting. It also helps that the Canvas and Antimatter lines are a great time for the right skier.

Stay tuned for more POWDER week content.

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