In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, and then things got really shitty real quick for Indigenous people. The European colonization of America began the centuries-long murderous legacy of trauma and displacement of Native people under the guise of expansion and elitism. This legacy isn’t just historical but persists in institutionalized racism, public actions, and everyday language, which many communities continue to experience today. Picture a spectrum with voter suppression, unfair lending practices, severe disparities in health and health care, and disproportionately high rates of being killed during a police encounter on one side and white Instagram models wearing headdresses to Coachella on the other.
But that legacy of trauma is also perpetrated in more insidious ways, even in the crunchy, GORP-eating, COEXIST bumper sticker world of the outdoor community.
Earlier this fall, Black Diamond posted a video of skiers arching turns on an untouched powdery slope on its Instagram account. It was a dreamy ski clip that ended oddly when someone off camera said, “We own this range.” When who is Lakota, saw the clip, he felt hurt and confused that a brand would want to represent themselves with aggressive, combative, domineering language. He commented as such on BD’s post. He remixed the video to his own , placing text over the footage that read: “POV: A ski brand or publication says some colonial BS like ‘we own this range’ or ‘conquered a peak’…we don’t let people talk about mountains like that in ski culture anymore.”
During the first few hours of posting, Connor received thousands of likes and hundreds of supportive comments. He also received polite requests for a nuanced explanation of the harm caused, with some commenters pointing toward long-celebrated quotes from famous outdoors people, like Sir Edmund Hillary’s, “It’s not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.” Connor engaged with these comments openly and honestly. “Intention and impact are not the same thing,” he told me during a recent phone call. “I’ve worked with Indigenous kids and women, who all say, ‘I’m so put off by the culture of skiing that I don’t want to get into it, because it’s all, conquer this, own that, shred it, stomp it, and the language just feels very violent, and how I feel about skiing isn’t violent.’ And so, I get someone who’s like, ‘I don’t think conquer is a violent word.’ Yeah, well, from your lens it isn’t a violent word. There was no violence experienced on your end of the barrel of the gun. But for the people who were in the crosshairs, that all comes off as violent. If you’re Native American and someone says, ‘we conquered this place, we own this place now,’ that recalls memories of violence, of trauma.”
In the comment section of his post, during those first few hours, folks were receptive to Connor’s explanation of word choice in ski culture, and the exchanges were civil. To their credit, Black Diamond acted quickly—they deleted the original post within 24 hours, issued a public apology, and their social media manager personally apologized to Connor. Black Diamond emailed Connor an apology and requested his consulting rates and availability to lead a DEI athlete training (at the time of publication, Connor had not been officially hired for the training and was still awaiting a response from Black Diamond). It was a quick and sincere response to Connor’s feedback, showing that even brands can model responsiveness in building a more inclusive community. Unfortunately, comments on the post devolved into a hellscape of sun-cooked porta potty thrown atop a tire fire.
An accurate number of the racist and bigoted comments Connor received on his post and in his direct messages is hard to calculate. There were so many that he had to block and report accounts, delete comments and messages, turn off comments on the post, and scrutinize new comments on pre-existing and unrelated posts. Friends and followers who stood up to trolling in support of Connor would later tell him they received racist and/or bigoted messages, even death threats. I contacted close to 20 accounts who commented on Connor’s post in a questionable way to hear their perspective, maybe even change it. Four responded. One told me that my Irish ancestors would hang me for “picking that side.” One responded with a series of memes suggesting they’d burn down my house and that they sexually pleasure themself to photos of my face. One admitted they could understand how “conquer” is a harmful word to an Indigenous person and that language can be damaging but saw no issue with calling Connor a homophobic slur. I did have a civil exchange with the fourth respondee, who identified as white and male (he did not feel comfortable sharing his age), but he ultimately doubled down on his belief that words cannot cause harm, even slurs. It was not a great day to go interneting.
The concept and impact of harmful language can, at times, be difficult to grasp for white skiers. A simple change could make a big difference. If ski enthusiasts embraced language that reflects a relationship of respect with the land, it might feel more welcoming to skiers from all backgrounds. To contextualize it, I asked Connor if a fair comparison for outrage would be white folks taking issue with an Indigenous skier creating a reel of a jib session filmed on the grounds of a Catholic church in which someone could be heard saying, “I just crucified this!” He told me a more apt comparison would be if he filmed himself skiing in Germany using “holocaust” as a descriptor for skiing. Connor was quick to tell me the motivations for his post and how he interacts with people in person and online. In general, it is not about calling folks out but rather in. Connor figures the skiers in the BD post most likely won’t have a combative relationship with the mountains. They probably are grateful for them, even love them. But we’ve been conditioned to describe skiing as having dominion over the land. And in any other circumstance, that type of language would be ridiculous.
“It’d be like dancing with your grandma at a wedding and then you jump up and you’re like, ‘Fuck yeah, bitch! Told you I had the moves,’” he described to me. “Everybody would be like, ‘Dude, what’s wrong with this kid?’ That’s how I feel in my relationship with the mountains. This is my respected, cherished elder.” Connor wants skiers to shift our language to represent our true feelings. And that is not a hard concept to grasp. Think about it. We don’t don eyeblack and listen to Jock Jams before we ski. We’re not physically besting an opponent. Skiing is not a football game, so why do we talk about skiing like a contact sport with a scoreboard? Maybe it’s time to embrace language that truly reflects our connection to the mountains— and community rather than a win-at-all-costs mentality. We’d get dumped on our asses if we smooched our significant other and yelled out, “Slayed it!” We don’t use meathead language in our love affairs. Skiing is no exception.
One of the things I love most about skiing is the universal language of the pursuit of joy. Laughter and those barbaric yawps, yippees, and woooohoooos we bark out in communal elation at the bottom of an epic wiggle do not need Google Translate to be understood. Shouldn’t we all want as many people as possible to feel that? The answer is yes. And that means that, at the very least, we need to think about what we’re saying and be open to hearing someone else’s perspective. Unfortunately, the internet is filled with hateful dickalopes. But you don’t have to be a hood-wearing Klan member to say something hurtful.
After Connor and I talked about racism-net, our conversation moved to a subject decidedly less awful: powder skiing. Connor and I are friends, and we’ve shared a handful of frosty days filled with featherlight snow that has risen to our eyeballs. We often joke about “stoke” and “flow” and how we whiff when describing the magic of skiing. I told Connor the person who described it best was mystic, author, and powder skiing legend Dolores LaChappelle. “Did you just hear what you said,” he asked me. “You said something I take issue with.” To describe LaChappelle, I used the word “pioneering.” I hadn’t even realized it. My intention was not to cause any harm, but I had. And I immediately thought, No, no, no. You’re my friend. I’m on your side. I’m a good guy. I felt like I needed to defend myself. But Connor pointed out that we must accept when we’re wrong to be a good guy, for skiing to be more inviting and inclusive.
What is more important to us: the words we use to describe skiing or skiing itself? I think it’s fair to assume that skiing would still be a joy-filled event if skiers everywhere went mute tomorrow. If the community we love is built upon that joy, then considering how our language reflects our shared respect and love for the mountains is a small but worthy endeavor. No one’s getting canceled, the woke police—whatever that is— isn’t going to confiscate your boots and skis, and no one’s ski membership is being revoked. Being wrong is uncomfortable, but that’s all it is. If we get called on something, we are not at risk of losing anything. We only stand to gain understanding.
“I want you to know how I feel when you say this or that,” Connor says. “I don’t just bring it up with the outcome in mind of like, I want you to be different. I want you to know why I’m different, and to decide if that’s a reason worth changing something small about yourself.”