Upward Bound.
By Jennifer Kammler.
All photos by Jennifer Kammler.
Chapter 1: We Always Try to Look Cool
January 27th, 2024 – Gosau, Austria
The lift hums softly as I stand next to Martin, my snowboard instructor, on a black conveyor belt that takes us up the beginner’s hill. The mountains are still cloaked in shadows, and our breath clouds in the cold air. A small snake of colorful dots slowly makes its way down the mountain: preschool kids with their ski instructor.
My heart is beating fast, and every part of me is buzzing with excitement. Today is the day I’ll step onto a snowboard for the very first time. Just booking this lesson felt like I had finally started to take my fate back into my own hands. A way out of the old, predictable routines and dark places I had been stuck in. After a long stretch of simply accepting life as it came, it feels like I’m slowly coming back in control.
Martin stands beside me and casually adjusts his bindings, making it look so easy. I’m sitting in the snow, trying to follow along. Pull up the pant leg, press the foot back, click the ankle strap, tighten the toe strap, and pull the pants back down. I smile uncertainly as he extends his hand to help me up. It is strange to not be able to move my feet separately, tethered together by the board beneath me.
I look ahead. When did that small hill get so damn steep? Shaking my hands, I try to relax my posture, but the board shifts abruptly to the left. Instinctively, my arms flail out in a desperate attempt to find balance. Then I crash hard onto my rear. Fuck. There’s no need to say: that wasn’t the last time I tumbled and cursed that morning.
"We always try to look cool,” Martin chuckles a little later. “We're not skiers."
His arms hang loosely by his sides as he bends his knees a bit, his stance looking effortless.
I imitate him as best I can, but what looks so easy for him is such a challenge for me. If there’s one thing I’m not, at this point in my life, it’s cool.
On the surface, things might seem fine. I have a well-paid job, friends I’ve known for years, I do sports regularly and enjoy travelling. To anyone who meets me, it might look like I have my shit together. But underneath my collected exterior, my life is still a mess.
I started to realize that something went completely wrong about a year ago. Several issues I had at work, in my relationship, and with myself, culminated in a Gordian knot that drained me of all delight. I felt trapped. Suffocated by routines and roles that no longer fit. I couldn’t keep going like that.
In the fall of 2023, I packed up my VW bus and traveled through Europe with my best friend for six weeks, hoping the open road would give me clarity. The journey was beautiful, but it was also a demanding one. I just couldn’t get completely involved. It was like watching a play where I was the lead actress, but none of it felt authentic.
When I returned home, I decided it was time to actively change my life. I ended my marriage and promised myself to start living in a way that felt true to who I was. No longer just going through the motions.
Now, three months later, I haven’t come far. I stand here on a frozen slope with a snowboard under my feet, trying to remember every step from Martin’s instructions. Falling over and over again, I don’t feel cool at all. Just unathletic and clumsy. How would I be able to sort out my entire existence? I can’t even figure out how to stay upright on the damn board. What the hell am I doing here?
Fortunately, Martin doesn’t notice all the doubts in my head. He guides me through navigating the slope on my heelside edge. My legs are burning from the unfamiliar effort. As I slowly traverse, it is as if somebody had hit a secret mute button. My mind goes completely still. All the noise, all the doubts and uncertainties are silenced. The only thing that exists now is me, the board beneath my feet, the crisp air against my face, and the hill in front of me. For the first time in months, I am present. Truly sensing the flow of a moment.
A smile creeps across my face as a wave of peace and ease washes over me. I shift my weight onto my left foot without thinking and the board responds, sliding down the hill with a fluidity that leads Martin to give me an encouraging fist bump.
That is the moment I fell in love with snowboarding.
It isn’t the thrill of the speed (yet), or the stoke of learning a new skill. It is that feeling of being completely there and alive. Outside in the mountains and with butterflies in my stomach. It’s just so fucking special. That moment will forever be vivid in my memory.
As I become conscious of that happiness, my concentration fades. I catch an edge and crash face-first into the icy slope. Hard. You don’t fall like a kid when you’re in your late 30s. The body doesn’t bounce back the way it used to.
Martin asks if I’m okay. I grit my teeth, ignore the sharp pain in my knees, and push myself back up. Because that’s what it’s about now, isn’t it? Savoring the good moments and getting back up without complaint when the harsh realities hit. In life and on a snowboard.
A few hours later, I am lounging in the cozy cabin my friends and I rented for the weekend. My friend Jochen and I had just returned from a short walk to take a certain photo of the Gosaukamm, a ridgeline of mountains that provides the backdrop of the Austrian town of Gosau. It’s already dark outside and freezing cold, but the sky was clear and full of stars. Inside the woodstove spreads pleasant warmth and my friends laugh about a silly joke that wasn’t even funny twenty years ago.
I feel my smart phone vibrating and pull it out of my pocket. A message from my friend David: “Wanna come ride with us in two weeks?” Instantly, doubts creep up on me and I hesitate. Then I quickly return a thumbs up.
It’s confirmed: I’ll be getting on a board again. The journey officially has started.
Chapter 2: Following New Tracks
February 10th, 2024 – Krün, Germany
A dark figure shuffles towards my van. I’m parked at the tiny, poorly lit train station in Klais, a town in the foothills south of Munich. He carries a worn leather bag in one hand and drags a snowboard in the other. Benni chuckles next to me, leaning over to open the passenger door. I’m in the driver’s seat and start the engine as they hug each other. The sliding door creaks open, and David tumbles inside, bringing his gear and a whiff of stale beer with him. “Man, you’re trashed,” I say, smirking. Our friend raises his hands in mock apology. “The train ride was long.” Shaking my head, I turn the van around. The heater kicks out a mix of lukewarm air and that familiar, slightly musty smell that always makes me feel at home. The boys crack another beer and we head towards our rental apartment.
I’m relieved David is too wiped for heavy conversation tonight. Instead, it’s all laughs. We grab dinner at our favorite restaurant, swap stories and jokes that leave us crying from laughter. No one brings up the bigger stuff we’re all dealing with. For tonight, we get to leave it behind.
The next morning I’m in good spirits sitting next to Benni and David on the chairlift. The sun beams down, warming my face, while the sky stretches out in a flawless, uninterrupted blue. Below us the snow glitters like a sea of diamonds and the jagged peaks around us form a postcard-perfect panorama. My gaze wanders over the perfectly prepared slopes. Oh boy, they look pretty steep. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. I’m not going to back down now, because I’m exactly where I wanted to be.
What led up to that moving morning in the chairlift was a boring December evening last year. I was trying to distract myself from the endless loop of questions swirling in my head. Scrolling aimlessly on YouTube, I stumbled across a recording of the Natural Selection Tour 2022 in Jackson Hole. After five minutes of watching, I instantly knew something significant was happening.
I sat in front of my laptop for four and a half hours watching the competition. I didn't care who won in the end. Until that point, I had never even heard of any of the riders, nor did I have any idea what defined a good run. Not to mention I didn’t understand most of the English jargon from the commentators. But that only fueled my curiosity.
Zugspitze, Austria.
It wasn't the competition that fascinated me. It was the movements, their sheer beauty. The control with which Torstein Horgmo or Travis Rice maneuvered their boards between the trees impressed me deeply. Each rider left traces on the hillside that felt like the answers I had been searching for so long.
For me each of their tracks was part of what I wanted my life to become: the combination of strength, creativity, control, and commitment. It resonated so deeply with me, and I realized that my life would take a new direction for the second time.
The first time was when I fell in love with the world of wood and resin. In 2007, my former boyfriend took me to his workplace, a carpentry shop. When I stepped over that threshold for the first time, I immediately held my breath. The evening sun streamed through the dirty windows into the workshop and dust danced in the beams of light. The smell of varnish and resin filled the air, while the heavy machines stood majestically and quietly in the dim light. The atmosphere was so calm and inspiring.
Even today the hair on my arms stands on end when I think back to that evening, when I decided to become a carpenter.
I have never regretted leaving university because what I found was my true passion.
When I saw the snowboarders competing in Jackson Hole, I felt that exact same sensation that had changed my life once before, 17 years ago.
At least that's how I can summarize it today, sitting on the chairlift with the boys. Back then, it was just fascination and a flutter in my stomach. But it made me take the first steps and brought me up here to this beautiful morning in the mountains. Everything seems to be falling into place. I lean back in the seat, letting the lift sway slightly, soak in the view and mentally high-five myself for the recent decisions I’ve made.
Ten seconds later, my calm is gone again. The lift rattles into the top station and I instantly realize that there’s something Martin didn’t teach me on my first day: I have absolutely no idea how to get off this thing.
Benni and David glide off effortlessly, like they’ve done it a thousand times, but I hesitate for half a second too long. My back foot, unstrapped, skids out awkwardly as the board veers sideways. Balance gone, I topple over and land in an unceremonious heap just beyond the ramp.
“Dude, you good?” Benni asks, trying not to laugh as he helps me up.
I take his hand, brush the snow off my jacket and nod. Inside, I’m dying a little. Turns out, steering my board with only one foot strapped isn’t intuitive; we’re not vibing just yet.
The next few hours are lighthearted. My chair-lift skills improve and I work on finding balance, sharing laughs, and savoring this time together. David glides to a stop a few meters ahead of me. His board kicks up a fine icy mist that floats around him, refracting the sunlight into a thousand radiant points. I can’t help but imagine the day I’ll be able to pull off a stop like that with the same grace. For now, I’m completely spent. My thighs burn with every movement but I push on, tracing the thin line David’s board has etched into the slope. I spot the clean curve where he shifted edges, transitioning from heelside to toeside. It’s like a map left for me to follow.
I take a deep breath, bend my knees a little more, lean onto my front foot, and let my front shoulder guide me in the same direction. My heart races as I brace for the possibility of catching an edge, but something clicks. The board responds, smoothly carving beneath me. In that moment – without overthinking, without forcing it – two turns connect for the very first time.
Chapter 3: Clearing the Fog
April 21st, 2024 – Zugspitze, Germany
For the second time in five minutes, I pull out my phone, debating whether to stay or hop on the lift for a quick run instead of waiting here. The chill is starting to set in and skiers are passing me by, filing into the short line for the next chair. I glance up the hill, scanning for the bright blue jacket of my friend Konsti, who went for a “quick powder run” fifteen minutes ago. All I see are washed-out gray silhouettes descending through a haze of fog and snowflakes. The flat outrun of the slope, just twenty meters above, is barely visible.
When we set out this morning, the weather forecast had made us hopeful for a great day. But the Bavarian Alps in April had other plans. By the time I parked the van at Eibsee and we hopped on the cogwheel train up to the Zugspitze ski resort, heavy clouds had rolled in and snow started to fall.
It’s my fourth day on a snowboard and, until the sun finally cracked through the grey blanket draped over the hill, it felt like my body had forgotten everything I’d learned so far. My snowboard seemed magnetically drawn to every hidden knuckle and bump, none of which I could see coming. I spent more time wrestling myself up than actually riding. So, I feel pretty… let’s say… grounded.
But then the mist lifted, and as if by magic – who would have guessed – my ability to stay upright improved exponentially. For seasoned snowboarders, this might not sound groundbreaking, but the realization of how much visibility impacts my riding was eye-opening. I mentally added low-light lenses to my shopping list.
After a few runs in the sun, Konsti suggested we split up for a bit. He wanted to use the brief weather window to scout out a favorite powder line he knew. I was already exhausted, so I appreciated the break. Now, here I am, trembling in the cold and starting to lose my patience. A hot coffee would be amazing right now or, even better, a steaming mug of Glühwein. My mouth waters at the thought of that sugary warm red wine spiced with cinnamon, but then I remember: I quit drinking four weeks ago. Fuck. No Glühwein for me.
Hinterux, Austria.
That decision came as part of a larger shift in my habits – a change I knew was overdue. It started when I realized that I didn’t catch on to snowboarding right away, even if Martin claimed I was a natural.
I might have a decent sense of balance, but it doesn’t seem to help much. It didn’t matter how often I stand on a slackline or balance board; snowboarding is just different. I had expected to feel a natural connection to it, that my body would follow my mind and that my sheer determination to learn would give me an edge.
But snowboarding is unlike anything I’ve ever done before. It’s a humbling lesson in patience and perseverance. It reminds me, in a strange way, of when I first started woodworking. Back then, I watched my instructor make it all look so effortless, only to stumble over the smallest details when I tried it myself. The frustration was real, but slowly, through practice and persistence, I went from fumbling through the basics to mastering the craft.
Remembering that process gives me hope. I’ve tackled something complex before and succeeded. Why should it be different now?
Well… back then I was twenty-one and had seemingly endless time on my hands, more than eight hours to practice (at work) every day. That’s not the case anymore. The Austrian Alps are a three hours' drive from where I live, and with my work schedule I can’t go every weekend during the short four-month season.
But here’s the good part: at thirty-seven, I know how to approach things the right way, how to turn dreams into goals, and how to adjust my priorities. I’m more mindful, more focused, more aware. But that same awareness also makes me more conscious of my limits, and there’s a part of me that misses the naive courage I had back then when I learned about woodworking.
In short, my mind is willing but my body... not so much. I’ve realized my usual fitness routine won’t cut it if I want to progress quickly. That means training more precisely, building muscle to protect my joints, and preparing my body for the new challenge.
It’s not like I’m out of shape. I climb, hike, run, cycle, and practice Budokon (a blend of yoga and mobility training). I’m flexible and active. But I’ve never pursued any of these with a specific goal in mind. I’ve just done whatever fits the weather and in-between my workload and partying. So, I’ve made changes. I joined a gym and started paying more attention to my diet. It feels great, but I quickly learned that hitting the gym three times a week is pointless if I spent the weekends hanging loose.
After waking up on a Sunday four weeks ago, feeling utterly wrecked, I decided enough was enough. Full commitment, no excuses.
On one hand, I’m excited about this new version of myself. It’s someone I’ve always admired: a mindful, self-determined person who prioritizes health and takes care of their body. I already feel clearer, stronger, and more capable.
But I’d be lying if I said I don’t struggle. It’s been just a few weeks, but I miss the wild side of life. The nights out with friends that stretch on until dawn, when consequences are something to deal with tomorrow. The mornings on a rooftop, watching the sun rise with a joint in one hand and a beer in the other, knowing that sleep would have to wait. The freedom of breaking away from expectations and living on my own terms. Choosing to give that up felt like giving up a part of myself.
I know you can have fun without drinking or losing control. But it’s not quite the same. Sometimes really letting go, even for a little while, feels like a much-needed rebellion against the relentless pace of life. And sure, you don’t have to be sober, eat clean, and go to the gym all the time in order to snowboard on the weekends. But for me, it’s about something deeper. It’s about redefining who I am and shedding old habits that no longer serve me. And if I’m totally honest with myself, it is about getting rid of that suppression strategy by defining what fuels it.
At the bottom of the lift, as these thoughts settle in my mind, a gust of wind snaps me back to the present. Damn it, I still want a Glühwein.
I tug my jacket tighter and glance up the slope once more, searching for any sign of Konsti. The swirling fog and falling snow make it impossible to pick out anything distinct. As the minutes stretch on, a flicker of unease creeps in.
Then I finally spot the bright blue of Konsti's jacket. He’s trudging down toward the station, unmistakable even through the haze. But the way he’s moving tells me something went wrong. When he finally reaches me, he collapses onto the bench nearby, breathing heavily. His face is red and his voice is shaky as he starts recounting what happened. Too far off-piste, chasing that powder run he’d been so excited about, he found himself stuck in waist-deep snow. The board sank, and no matter how hard he tried to wiggle free, he couldn’t get enough momentum to ride out. In the end, he had to hike uphill to rejoin the slope, an exhausting and nerve-wracking ordeal in such poor visibility.
“I was completely lost up there,” he mutters, still catching his breath.
We decide to head up together for lunch and one last lap before calling it a day. On the chairlift, Konsti is quiet. My own thoughts wander, and I can’t shake the realization of how quickly things can go wrong, even in a resort setting. If I had needed to call ski patrol for help, I wouldn’t even have known where to tell them to search.
At the top, we duck into the restaurant. Over a hot bowl of soup, we recount the day’s ups and downs, from my clumsy first runs to his gnarly off-piste trip. The warm food restores some energy, but my resolve feels renewed for a different reason.
Kaunertal, Austria.
If I want to stretch my boundaries and spend more time in the wintery mountains, I need to add more than low-light lenses to my tool kit. Being aware, fit, and clear-headed isn’t just about improvement or pride; it’s about safety. It’s about being ready when the unexpected happens and having the strength, both physical and mental, to handle it.
Our last lap is slow and deliberate. The snow keeps falling, and the visibility remains patchy, but I learned something today. The mountain doesn’t care about your plans or your confidence. It demands respect.
When we finally reach the parking lot, I feel the ache in my muscles and the weight of the day settle in. But there’s also a sense of determination, a reminder that this whole trip is also about becoming someone I trust to handle whatever comes my way.
Chapter 4: Park Opening
Oktober 6th, 2024 – Hintertux, Austria
My muscles are sore.
I’m not just talking about my thighs feeling tight; I mean the mother of all muscle aches, straight from hell. Earlier today, I couldn’t even lift my arms high enough to drink from a water bottle. And don’t even get me started on the dark bruises on my knees.
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m curled up in my van, cocooned in my sleeping bag. With no proper heating system, the gas stove is on, trying to take the edge off the cold. But all it seems to do is fill the space with a smell so bad it’s giving me a headache. It’s been at least an hour of me trying to convince myself to get up and start the four-hour drive home. Outside, the light is already fading, and the parking lot, once buzzing with life, is nearly empty.
When I arrived here on Friday, it was packed like a festival campground. Vans and tents crammed into every available corner, music pumping, little parties springing up everywhere. Fairy lights twinkled between buses, and the sound of laughter filled the air.
I was lucky to find a decent spot, a chill guy in a sick van on one side and a calm Czech couple on the other. I settled in, made myself a coffee, and wandered over to where the Metal Battle, a rail jam which takes place every year at the valley station of the gondola, was supposed to kick off later. I’d imagined the location would already be humming with energy but, to my surprise, it was almost empty, apart from the bar staff. It seemed like everyone was still hanging out with their homies at the campsites.
My homies are… at home. They are all in their forties, juggling families, jobs, and responsibilities. When I mentioned going to Hintertux for the park opening day, they only raised eyebrows. So, I was either flying solo or staying at home.
Some days, being out alone is fine. Actually, more than fine. I love the independence, the freedom to make my own plans and not having to compromise. But other days, like this weekend, it’s different. The introverted side of me creeps in and I feel shy, useless, and lonely. Standing completely sober among a crowd of two hundred drunk twenty-somethings at the Metal Battle later that night didn’t help. I felt old and totally out of place.
Still, it was worth it. Watching the riders up close, pulling off tricks like it was no big deal, was incredible. They’re launching themselves at steep down-flat-down rails – like Øyvind Kirkhus with a Hardway Switch Back-270 on the double-kink – like it’s second nature. Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to connect turns. Obviously, I didn’t hit any rails this weekend. I just tried to stay upright on mellow slopes. Despite that, the excitement of the rail jam added to what I was feeling: I couldn’t wait to strap in again after the long summer break.
But now, two days later, I’m so sore I’m choking on the fumes of the gas stove rather than moving to turn it off. It takes a while, but my survival instinct takes the upper hand. I haul myself up and turn it off, every movement a reminder of how much my body hates me right now.
But it’s not just the physical pain that’s eating at me. Around this time last year my husband, Andi, and I decided to split up. That decision was freeing, but today I miss him. Not as my partner but as a beautiful human who has vanished from my life. It makes me sad that we can’t share all my recent experiences, the good and the bad. For over ten years he was my confidant and my calming influence. We grew with each other and together we handled all the ups and many downs life threw at us. Our love was the foundation that gave me strength and that I didn’t have to question for a second. All our issues never scratched this base layer.
Until they did. Until there were no more words. Until I felt losing all my colors and becoming completely transparent in his presence. And until it was too late to understand the reasons and find solutions together. Our foundation had shattered and not knowing the when and why still paralyzes me. We just lost each other and today that fucking hurts.
Damn it. I need to get out of this state of self-pity. I sit up, straighten my spine, and focus on my breath. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
A picture forms in my mind. Instead of letting it go, I follow it along a snow-covered slope under a brilliant blue sky. The silence is absolute, broken only by the crunch of skins on snow as I ascend. Warm clouds of breath drift over my cheeks and, in the distance, the peak I’ll ride down in long, flowing turns, finally comes into view. I take one more deep breath and reopen my eyes.
Time to focus on the positives. I’m proud of myself for going to the park opening, alone and sober. I spent two days on the slopes, pushing myself. I even ended up sharing a gondola with two of my favorite pro riders and managed not to embarrass myself. Saturday was a bluebird day, with views over the Zillertaler Alps that took my breath away. And my boots are finally starting to break in. But the best part? I’m doing what I want. I’m working towards my goals.
Maybe this is what it takes to dip the brush into paint again and put another stroke on the canvas. In two days, my muscles will have recovered, and I know my mind will follow. To allow ourselves to dive into our sadness, anger or grief is crucial. Pain needs to be processed to enable us to go on. To embrace it is uncomfortable and hard work. But it is just as necessary as the time we give our bodies to heal after an injury. Sometimes distraction and surrounding ourselves with friends helps, though sometimes spending time alone appears to be the mightier medication.
I slip out of my sleeping bag and start packing. As I turn the van around, I take one last look at the glowing peaks. They’ve turned rosy in the fading light. My arms ache as I hold the steering wheel. But the part of me that is responsible for acceptance and kindness is just regaining its strength.
Chapter 5: Down The Rabbit Hole
Oktober 23rd, 2024 – Homebase, Germany
If you’re someone like me, who tends to obsess, the internet is an endless goldmine of information. Snowboarding has been no exception. But where do you even begin? What’s the essence of it all? Who are the key people to know? What are the names of all those tricks, and what do the endless stream of English terms in articles and interviews mean?
There are the competition formats, which are divided into multiple disciplines. Then there are decades’ worth of video parts, practically thousands by now, that you’re “supposed to know” if you want to be a member of the club. Add to that a slew of brands that are either celebrated as “core” or frowned upon, the snowboard and skate shops, the park crews, the photographers and filmers. Figuring it all out was like assembling IKEA furniture without the manual: confusing, time consuming, and somehow, I ended up with extra pieces.
Fortunately, I stumbled upon The Bomb Hole. Over the almost weekly one-and-a-half to four-hour interviews I got to know an incredible variety of personalities from the snowboard world. To long-time snowboarders the format might just be entertaining, but to a newcomer like me, it is both immensely informative and inspiring. It allowed me a glimpse into the vibrant American snowboard scene in Salt Lake City and North America in general. Nearly every episode sparked a new rabbit hole for me to dive into. Not to mention, my English has improved noticeably, and I’ve begun to remember some of snowboarding’s endless slang.
What fascinates me most about The Bomb Hole though is the personal stories the guests share. They’re as diverse as the snowboarding scene itself: from young street snowboarders to accomplished contest riders and legendary figures who shaped the culture’s early days, all the way to the offbeat backcountry riders embarking on wild expeditions to the most remote corners of the world. What unites them all is their love for snowboarding. Sitting with Chris Grenier in that chaotic set filled with memorabilia and snowboarding relics, they somehow always manage to impress me.
Before I even realized it, I started seeing some of them as my new role models. If you asked me now who I look up to, names like Nick Russell, Marie-France Roy, or Torstein Horgmo immediately come to mind– inspiration I’ve never had in the past. Listening to their stories, principles and values moved me deeply.
But along with that admiration came a nagging question: is it smart to set such personalities as my North Star during a time when I’m actually trying to figure out who I am? It feels like a shortcut with only one possible outcome: I lose.
When I compare myself to them, I’ve set the framework that I operate within. That’s convenient, sure. But instead of doing the hard work of setting my own new rules for living, I borrow their standards and opinions. It’s easy to adopt their passion because snowboarding ignites a similar kind of euphoria in me. But I’ll never come close to what they’ve already achieved.
The more I dove into it, the more it felt like it might be time to leave this cozy nest of borrowed inspiration and take a closer look at what I want to achieve.
When I push all those external influences aside, I see a growing list of personal goals in snowboarding: mastering solid board control and clean carved turns. Riding sidehits, stomping 180s and 360s, and nailing at least Mute and Indy grabs. If I include my already existing passion for climbing and hiking remote mountains, maybe my time in overcrowded ski resorts eventually comes to an end. So, venturing into splitboarding and confidently exploring the backcountry, with the necessary skills for safety, should be on that list, too.
Seeing my goals spelled out here in black and white feels freeing. They are like a slot, carved-out of my life for snowboarding to grow into. On my terms, at my pace, and by my standards– even if the journey might be a long one.
Seemingly, that’s where the positive sides of having role models appear: without being inspired by the riders of the Natural Selection Tour, I might not have discovered snowboarding at all. By watching them ride I found the motivation to strap in for the first time and I uncovered a new source of strength and happiness. To see seasoned street riders battle a rail for five hours, not giving up until they finally get the trick, helps me to accept my own challenges. Even if my battle is just to link two proper turns. They show me that it’s worth trying and that – with hard work – nearly everything is doable.
But what about all the different opinions I find myself influenced by? Diving into new topics can be overwhelming, especially if they are as rich and culturally intertwined as snowboarding. To some it is just a fun activity, to others it’s a huge part of their identity. Honoring the roots of the culture and savoring its traditions surely is key. But to think outside the box and welcome new perspectives is what creates growth and progression.
What I mean is: if everybody thought that there couldn’t be anything better than TB2, Technical Difficulties or Destroyer then videos like Flat Pink or Bahamas never would have seen the light of day. If nobody had ever tried to tweak a Melon grab, Nicolas Müller’s iconic Method would have remained unborn. And if there hadn’t been outstanding personalities like Desiree Melancon or Jess Kimura forcing a shift in attention, women's snowboarding might still not be as impressive as it is today.
Reflecting on my standards and values in this new world is a long and winding slope. Sometimes it leads me down a rabbit hole. Sometimes, I get stuck on the cat track. But most of the time it directs me to stunning new places. All it takes to get there are a few people that gently nudge me into a new direction and a well-working compass to check if I’m still on my way.
Chapter 6: Trust the process
November 30th, 2024 – Homebase, Germany
As I wake up this morning, the light streaming through my window looks different. Brighter, somehow, though it isn’t seven o’clock yet. This time of year, sunrise isn’t until seven-thirty, but within seconds, I am wide awake and smiling. I jump out of bed like a ten-year-old and rush to the window. Sure enough, our front yard is blanketed in a thin veil of white. There’s a certain magic to it. No matter where I am, that first snowfall lights up my heart.
This excitement goes way back, wrapped in memories of childhood. Cozy evenings by the piano as my mom played Christmas songs or sledding for hours with my friends at the small hill outside my hometown. But those days are long gone and my recent adventure to the big hills of the Kaunertal in Austria created different kinds of memories.
It all started pretty promising, as I took the gondola up to the glacier last Thursday. It was perfectly sunny and after a warm-up lap I managed a full descent without falling for the very first time. My turns actually connected. I wasn’t fast or effortless or too stylish (I think), but I snowboarded. The joy of feeling my board, body, and mind finally sync up was incredible!
So, I was more than hyped as I strapped in at the top of the next slope. The crisp air felt electric, and the mountains stretched out around me like a dream. Feeling bold, I decided it was time to leave the mellow blue runs behind. Instead of turning right, I followed the red markers of a more advanced run (in Europe red markers indicate an intermediate run, analogous to a blue square in North America), feeling completely in sync with myself.
Turn after turn, I descended with a rhythm that felt almost light-footed. I couldn’t help but feel proud, enjoying every carve. After a steeper section, the slope eased, and I let my guard down.
Seefeld, Austria.
I turned my head to take in the terrain I’d just come down, and my board drifted sideways. I caught my front edge in the nastiest way I can remember. As I hit the hardpack I heard every part of my spine crack, from my neck all the way to my hips. I’ve taken a few slams by now, but this one was by far the gnarliest. When I was able to breathe again, I picked myself up and opted to never snowboard again. Carefully, I made my way down to the restaurant at the lift station, my knees still shaking with every turn.
Why the hell did I quit drinking? A shot – or better, two – felt like exactly what I needed. But that wasn’t an option and so I found a bench outside near the bar entrance. I cautiously leaned my head back against the wooden façade, closing my eyes to calm down. The stiffness in my back was already setting in, and I muttered a curse under my breath. Taking another run would have been pure idiocy.
When I pulled out my phone, I realized I’d have to wait over two hours for the next bus to the valley. Going through my options I noticed a snowplow idling near the parking lot, engine already running. Without thinking twice, I grabbed my stuff and asked if I could hitch a ride.
The driver Jonas offered to take me and for forty minutes, we chatted about the hidden workings of the ski resort – how the lifts operated, how they controlled avalanches with explosives, and how they teamed up with the mountain rescue service.
During the last season, a man tragically lost his life after falling headfirst into a snowdrift not far from where I crashed today. With no one around to witness the accident, he became trapped and suffocated. By the time Jonas handed me my board from the back of the plow, I almost felt glad about how harmless my own mistake turned out to be today. Almost.
The crash had left a mark, though. The kind that sticks in your head as much as your body. My conversation with Jonas about avalanches and all the accidents that occur at the resort reminded me of my day with Konsti at the Zugspitze. This could have been such a story, too.
Now, three days later as I slip back under my warm blanket, the aches in my back slowly fade into the background and my will to get back on my board grows with every snowflake that lands in our yard. I take a sip of coffee and nestle deeper into my pillow. Playing in the snow as a kid in this safe environment of my hometown was such a cheerful and carefree time. But now, as an adult, the rules of my playgrounds have changed. Making a mistake in the mountains – winter or summer – can have serious consequences. Just venturing off-piste with your crew for a little bit of fresh pow might suddenly turn into a moment where you wish everyone had their avy gear.
I open my laptop and in five minutes I’ve confirmed my registration for my first avalanche course, two weeks from now in Garmisch-Partenkirchen on the German/Austrian border. My hesitation to deal with this subject in depth has lasted long enough. There is no point in recognizing all the hazards and feeling defenseless at their mercy. Since I was a child, I have built up so much knowledge about hiking, climbing and being in the mountains in general that I feel completely secure there in the summer. I want the same confidence and freedom during the wintertime. And if I want to fully enjoy everything snowboarding has to offer anytime soon, I need to get started.
This might sound like no big deal, but for me it’s a huge milestone in living a self-determined life and fighting my fears. Not to mention, as time goes on, the idea of splitboarding has grown in me. But getting to the backcountry and home again safe – doesn’t happen by accident.
I don’t know when I’ll get there, but I can see myself putting the pieces together. I put in the work to improve my riding, I learn about the necessary gear, and I will build up all the knowledge required. It already started months ago.
For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’ve regained something fundamental: my ability to trust the process.
Chapter 7: Preparation
December 15th, 2024 – Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany
Pushing through knee-deep powder at 2300 meters elevation for three minutes straight feels like running a marathon. My lungs burned, but the transceiver gripped in my hand didn’t care about my gasps for air. It flashed a second signal: 12 meters left. I turned and soon dropped to my knees, pushing the beacon closer to the surface, chasing that little arrow like my life – or someone else’s – depended on it.
It was just a training session, staged safely within sight of the groomed slope, but it didn’t feel like a drill. The rush, the urgency – felt real. The others had already started shoveling a few meters back, focused and relentless. I dug my hands into the snow, pulling myself forward, willing my body to move faster. The snow that got into my gloves slowly began to melt. I kept going until I finally pinpointed the signal.
As I still caught my breath, I couldn’t help but think that charging into the backcountry isn’t just the training you’ve done, it’s about the balance you strike between caution and courage, fear and adventure. That balance doesn’t just keep you safe in the mountains. It’s what carries you through life’s most unpredictable moments.
If this had been real – if we weren’t taking turns with the shovel, but instead digging to save a friend – how would it have felt to race that ticking clock? Fifteen minutes. Then it’s usually over.
Fiona, our AST 1 instructor, stopped the timer and rounded us up. “Very good! Remember, you need to practice all the procedures regularly. Only if every step becomes second nature, you’ll be able to act fast and competently in an emergency. And that can determine whether a person survives or not.”
It’s easy to romanticize “building safety skills,” but yesterday reality hit hard. Three minutes of running, kneeling, digging- my legs turned to lead, my arms shaking. What happens when exhaustion collides with panic? When every second matters, and I’m not fast enough? I imagine real snow, heavy and compacted from an avalanche – and a friend buried underneath it. Would I have kept it together?
Hiking up snowy mountains isn’t just about freedom and untouched powder. All it takes is one miscalculation, one poorly timed turn into the wrong face of a slope, and the mountains will remind you who’s in charge. They’re stunning and full of promise, yes, but also unforgiving. What am I signing up for when I pack up my gear and chase their secrets?
This question reminds me of a scene with my mom when I first started rock climbing. I showed her a video of the Huber brothers climbing El Capitan, and she literally turned pale. She thought I was up for the same life-or-death stunts. It took ages to convince her that this wasn’t the case and that those climbers had spent years honing their skills. That logic calmed her down. Now, I remind myself of the same thing.
I can’t predict an avalanche, but I can start with what I can control: careful planning, steady progress, and respecting my limits. I don’t need to drop into steep, gnarly couloirs on day one. I can earn my turns on mellow terrain, building confidence with each tour. It’s about choosing the right risks, the ones that teach me without crushing me.
Isn’t this the balance we need to find? The thin line between bravery and recklessness. Out in the backcountry, there’s no room for ego or carelessness. And yet, I can’t let fear hold me back either. In both the mountains and life, it’s not about avoiding risk entirely: that’s impossible. It’s about facing it in ways that leave room for growth, not devastation. Finding that balance is how we build resilience. There’s a reason I’m drawn to this: the quiet, the cold, the beauty of the untouched snow stretching toward the horizon. It’s freedom, but it’s freedom you have to earn.
As I processed all these new experiences the last light of the day faded. It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting on my bed in the tiny apartment my friends and I rented for the weekend. We’re almost the same crew as last season, when I took my very first ride on a chairlift with them. Here we are again, together. Just good times, taking laps at the small resort in Seefeld, Austria today, just like last time. We joke and laugh, wrestle in the snow like kids, and enjoy being outdoors, just like back in February.
But appearances can be deceiving. Spending a day on the slopes together isn’t something I take for granted anymore. Just a few weeks after our last carefree weekend in the sunny Austrian Alps one of my friends lost his son in a tragic traffic accident. For days afterward, it felt like the world stood still, holding its breath in quiet disbelief. After the funeral, life, indifferent as ever, just kept moving. So did we. Ready or not.
I still don’t know what it means to truly be there for someone in their grief. Does spending a weekend together help? He’s here with us, doing his best to move forward. But it’s different now – not at the surface, where the jokes and laughter flow, but underneath. There are these fleeting moments when I catch his expression and feel the weight of his loss. It’s like his smile will never quite be as carefree as it once was. But I can tell he’s trying so hard. Seeing it almost makes me cry. I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head. Feeling sorry for him doesn’t help anyone.
Life is just so fucked up sometimes. So unfair. It has its own secret rules, its own twisted paths, and we never know what’s waiting around the next corner. It could be the front of a truck, a heart attack or an avalanche. But it could also be the most epic day – sitting on a summit with your best friend, watching the sunrise, your mind coming to a complete standstill. But you have to get out of bed and start climbing to get there.
I glance over at my snowshoes, propped against the wall, next to my board. My tickets to the backcountry; to bluebird mornings, long climbs, and fresh lines. Sure, they’ll come with struggles too: sore muscles, severe lessons, fears I’ll have to face. But that’s part of the deal. Effort turns into reward. Risk into something meaningful. Or into a smile that’ll never fully reach my eyes again. Who knows.
My transceiver on the nightstand flashes 64% charged again, and I can’t help but smile. Same here.
I’m not fully ready: not for the backcountry, nor all the challenges life will throw at me. But I’m learning that readiness isn’t about certainty. It’s about moving forward anyway, equipped with what you can carry, and trusting you’ll grow into the rest.
Chapter 8: Rearranging The Molecules
January 5th, 2025 – Seefeld, Austria
The new year has just begun, and as the calendar flips, I’m reminded that my first twelve months of snowboarding are nearly behind me. Twelve months sounds like a lot, but when I count the actual days on the slopes, it shrinks down to just ten. And yet, yesterday, I did my first backcountry descent, less than a year after I first strapped into a snowboard and turned my knees into a patchwork of bruises.
Speaking of knees, I invented what I call the “knee-color scale” – a handy tool for measuring progress in my opinion. After my recent tour to the Rauthütte (a backcountry hut) near Leutasch, Austria (plus two days riding in Seefeld), my scale shows the best result yet: no color at all. No painful shades of green, yellow, or violet.
There were days in the past months when I doubted this was even possible. Since Thursday, I’ve been riding for three consecutive days – one of which included a two-hour ascent on foot and my first taste of powder off-piste – and I feel great. My body has finally adapted to the demands of the new lifestyle. If I weren’t living it, I wouldn’t believe it.
But I was there. Completely present for every step I took, up the hill and toward the summit. The wind-swept icy crystals from the branches, making the air glitter. The sun warmed my face as the crunch of light powder underfoot kept time with my breath. Later, floating down the valley on my board, gravity seemed to disappear in those few proper turns I managed to link. When I stopped and looked back up the hill, the sight of my tracks in the untouched snow made my eyes water. Those lines, those traces in the snow, that’s the secret magic that drew me to snowboarding in the first place, when I watched the Natural Selection for the first time.
I wish the hype I feel from these first experiences could last forever. But I know it’s like falling in love. In the beginning, everything is so exciting and new, but we adapt so quickly, don’t we?
Moving forward means leaving those “firsts” behind and carrying the lessons with you. The first time becomes the second, then the third, and eventually routine. But that’s also what keeps my knees from glowing in bruised technicolor and what empowers me to go on.
Today, I’m not feeling nostalgic about those firsts. Instead, I’m brimming with curiosity about what’s next. There are still so many “firsts” left. Progression may be gradual, but it’s anything but boring. All this progress has sparked changes beyond snowboarding. It’s reshaped how I see myself and what I want to aim for. Reflecting on the last twelve months some weeks ago, one question kept circling in my mind: where do I go from here?
I listened to my heart, and there was only one answer. One I initially hesitated to say out loud.
I want to go to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and see with my own eyes the snowy mountains that set my whole life on a new course. I want to spend time overseas, traveling through the U.S. and Canada along the Rocky Mountains, leaving my own tracks on their flanks. But this isn’t a short-term adventure: it requires time. Time to improve my riding, time to build my backcountry skills, and time off work to travel. This is more than just a three-week vacation; it’s a full year of “firsts.”
Sitting outside the Rauthütte, gazing at the snow-covered peaks, the full scope of my decision settled over me, sending a shiver down my spine. I had already spoken to my employer, submitted all the paperwork for my sabbatical, and gotten the green light. In thirty months, I’ll be leaving my beloved Bavarian home for almost a year. If I’m honest, I have no idea what I’ve signed up for. I just know that I want to do it.
Climbing a mountain has always been a powerful way to clear my head. Winter or summer, rain or shine, it’s always the same: each step uphill feels like shedding a layer of the troubled me. Descending one on a snowboard? That’s pure freedom. By the time I’m back in the valley, I’ve become someone new, as if the climb has rearranged me on a molecular level.
This past year, I’ve climbed countless mountains, both literal and metaphorical. And the result? I can feel it in every part of me right now. Self-doubt has given way to self-trust. Bad habits have transformed into the guardrails of a life I’m excited to live.
I will carry the same freedom I feel carving through powder into every corner of my life. I want every turn of my board to reflect the way I move through the world now: deliberate, joyful, and fearless. It’s time to strap in for this next adventure.
Jennifer Kammler is a carpenter and late-blooming snowboarder based in Germany. After discovering snowboarding in her late thirties, she now splits her time between her workshop, her VW bus, and whatever mountain has fresh snow. She fell for the sport the way she once fell for woodworking—suddenly and completely—and documents that journey with a mix of curiosity and heart that keeps her returning to the slopes.
