FEBRUARY IS OUT: Skiing’s most dangerous job, National Parks and Marc-Andre moves on

No matter how disappointed I feel when I turn the last page of a new issue, I’m comforted knowing 100 more fresh pages will arrive in a month’s time. But as I read about the cop car driving home to California , I realize that’s it. That’s the last new POWDER story I’ll read for seven months. The last new glossy photo I’ll salivate at for more than half a calendar year. Never mind the fact my season has barely begun (I haven’t even had a real powder day yet), the POWDER season is already in the corn cycle. But if the corn’s good, who’s gonna complain?

The February issue begins by addressing the possible Eurofication of Utah, describing how John Brennan invented the Falcon GT Avalauncher, paying tribute to Snowbasin’s Hill House and recalling Kit DesLauriers’s Everest descent. The Shooting Gallery should provide enough stoke to last through closing day. And Morpheme delves into mountain town appreciation and how a four-legged mutt became a fixture in Chamonix.

Then dive into Alaska’s most dangerous season, where conditions and psyches were shaken to a new level. Derek Taylor takes us into the Chugach and inside the head’s of the guides who make a living there. Learn how Alaska heli-skiing began, how the profession has evolved and how the guides deal with a universal feeling of inevitability.

Also, discover which country puts skiing first and elitism last. The public ski field phenomenon is somewhere in the Snowy White Wastes of the Southern Hemisphere. And get inspired to plan a memorable backcountry trip this spring. America’s national parks serve up some wild, remote skiing possibilities.

And if that’s not enough, take on Capitol Peak with Chris Davenport, duck a rope at Mad River Glen and get lost in Whistler. Finally, Marc-Andre Belliveau talks music, doctors, sitskis and emotions.

The POWDER season may be over. But the real powder season has just begun. So go get it. And sometime in August, when winter’s the last thing on your mind, we’ll arrive in your mailbox and get your head back where it belongs—in the snow.