FMCK snow : carrying gear
Most people treat ski gear as an inconvenience. Bulky, awkward, loud. Something to be tolerated between runs. We do not approach it that way. FMCK treats gear as part of the discipline. What happens between the snow and the car is part of the day, not a break from it.
The quiet ruling out is casual drag. Skis clattering behind. Poles trailing. Boots thudding on stairs. Nothing breaks form faster than the in-between. We do not treat the lift line as the start of the experience. It starts when the gear leaves the rack and ends when it is returned, clean and intact.
Carrying gear properly begins before the lift. In how it is stacked, how it is gripped, how it is moved through doorways without leaving a mark. Not for show. Not for efficiency. For the same reason you move quietly in someone else’s house—because care is a posture, not a performance.
The margin detail is how poles are carried when entering a lodge. Not swinging loose. Not scraped along walls. Held upright, tips aligned, angled so no one flinches. It is a small decision. But one that signals what kind of day you’re having, and what kind of person you are on the way to it.
This applies in silence. No one needs to comment on good gear handling. It does not attract attention. It avoids creating friction. The sound of skis set down cleanly on snow. The absence of apology when passing through a narrow space. A lodge entry where nothing has to be adjusted afterward.
There is also a refusal of dependence. We do not hand off equipment so we can check our phone. We do not leave poles behind and ask someone else to grab them. Carrying your own gear is not about proving anything. It is about completeness. Starting and finishing the day without spill.
Proper gear handling is a form of continuity. It means the person who skis well also packs well. It means the decisions made mid-run are made at the car, at the lodge, at the drying rack. No division between the competent version and the off-duty one.
This is not about precision. It is about presence. People who mishandle gear usually handle everything else that way too. Fast in the wrong places. Slow in the wrong places. Leaving trails. Making noise.
Another margin detail. How skis are carried up a staircase. Not horizontal. Not over the shoulder. Not catching passersby on the way through. Just vertical, slightly tilted, held close to the body so the balance is kept without adjustment. One hand on the pole grip. One on the shoulder strap. Nothing dangling.
When it is done properly, nothing interrupts. You arrive at the slope without needing to adjust. You finish the day without needing to search for anything. No part of the gear experience carries friction. It is all part of the motion.
That is what carrying your gear properly feels like. Not ease. Not efficiency. Just the quiet confidence that you can move through a shared space without leaving anything behind—not a mark, not a sound, not a problem for someone else to resolve.