Ssshheeoooooosshht

White noise fills the cold room where I stand in George’s ski workshop. I arrive in the afternoon, just after the rush of locals awaiting the pleasures of winter. Some will stay in the area, and others will be on their way to Lahti, the Tatra, or Rhône-Alpes, excited for work or training. Stefan — a local who travels around Europe as a ski mountain guide — and I fill a space hardly the size of a garden shed. We try not to trip over or stand in each other’s way.

‘How is it?’ A withered hand scrambles through a crumpled cardboard box, while behind me, a voice diligently responds with snow amount, snow texture, wind and moisture level. ‘If your forecast is to be trusted …’ — a grin flashes from the floor up to Stefan, while its owner hands me a chipped yellow square. I stare a millisecond too long at the multitudes of coloured pieces in the box, trying to recall which wax suits which weather condition. The square is pushed more firmly towards me. This time, I react and glide the wax piece over the rotary brush roller next to me, launching a cloud of dust into the air.

Ssshheeoooooosshht

George emerges from the nook behind the brush roller, ready to evenly apply the wax to skis. His knee pushes the box back into a mosaic of boxes under the workbench. Some kept together by duct tape, some by repurposed ice cream tubs. Filling the gaps in between are countless screwdrivers, drill bits, spray cans — tools in all sizes and shapes stacked over one another. Meanwhile, the few empty spots slowly fill with wax, plastic, and metal shavings. Exploring the space, his artistic liberty in sorting continues onto the workbench and above our heads. Seemingly chaotic, yet George’s hands never need to rest and search.

In contrast, a wall at the back displays neatly ordered mounting gauges for bindings hanging side-by-side like icons on an altar. Each model and manufacturer requires precise drilling spots to attach the fastening mechanic for boots safely. George’s practice and experience sometimes improve on this calculation, as seen by the alterations and handwritten notes added.

Ssshheeoooooosshht

Stefan and I perform a waltz under halogen light in the cramped shop: led by George’s movements, we try to find a free spot on the concrete ground speckled with wax. Slide between boxes, skis, and a dominating grinding machine, launching showers of sparks whenever a metal edge touches the stone. Seesawing between the workbench and machine, George keeps us moving while he sends a new pair of skis over the grinding stones, filling the room again with white noise. It becomes a metronome, setting the tempo of our movements — one pair of skis at a time.

Ssshheeoooooosshht

Unadjusted to the floating dust, my scratching throat calls for a break. I embrace the crisp winter air with a dangling mask around my neck. Using it would undermine my excuse to step outside and regain a sense of time passed in the shop. Once back, an avalanche of smells, of molten paraffin, plastics, and metal crashes upon me. As I climb over the pile of skis to be repaired tonight, George gestures at me over the brush roller with a smooth motion: it’s my turn! I grab my pair — no harm if I ruin my own — and attempt to replicate the rocking motion over the brush roller. Getting into a trance I listen to the voices swimming on top of the white noise of machines. Occasionally I feel a glance and align my feet to those next to me. I stop thinking about replicating and let the ski guide me, flowing a single swift motion over the rollers as if through powder snow.

Ssshheeoooooosshht

Suddenly the sharp ring of breaking metal pierces through the room. Silence. Then, disgruntled mumbling culminates in laughter. ‘Another expert’ — Stefan and George lock eyes knowingly at the now broken screwdriver in Stefan’s hand. It quickly joins other screwdrivers in a box that have met the same end. In recent years, the box has filled rapidly, on track with the advent of video tutorials and the growing number of self-appointed tinkerers amongst winter sports fans. Running their hands over the screwdriver head stuck in the binding, they sigh and place another pair of wounded skating skis to the side.

To lift the mood, Stefan decides to flip through a mountain of skis until he finds a pair with his name scribbled on them. It is time to repair his own. Pointing at them he proclaims: ‘176 cm, 80 kg’. ‘So, 90 kg in force,’ corrects George. Expecting Stefan’s expression to shift to disbelief and contest his judgment, he adds, ‘You’ll need it with these!’ With a swift motion, Stefan pulls out his skis, and the pile rumbles as the free spot is filled with others of its kind. Handing them to George, Stefan erupts like a child confessing a wrongdoing. ‘We haven’t had much snow lately …,’ finishing abruptly and looking abashedly away. George’s fingers wander over the scratched base, the wooden core shimmering through layers of black polymer. Piercing grey-blue eyes behind glasses stare at Stefan. With raised eyebrows, a slight nod, and some mischief in the voice, he verdicts: 'G’rechtfertigte Ausred. Lei ett heint!’ He takes a sidestep, performing a slight split over some cross-country skis covered in wax, and gestures us to come closer. Countless scratches and deep carvings reveal metal and wood hidden inside that marvel of technology. Over the years new layers of materials have improved performance, weight, and speed. However, maintenance has grown with them in complexity.

George selects a plastic filament from an array of drums and tickles it with a flame. Enough to melt it, but not to the point where it starts to smoke. While the droplets fall on the carvings, he gently irons them deep into the last gap; he continues our conversation about crafts. ‘People see the athlete, but few see the work leading to it! This [tapping at the ski] decides between milliseconds for a win, or a career-ending ambulance ride.’

Ssshheeoooooosshht

He points over my head. Hanging between the fluorescent tubes are mounting supports for cross-country skis. No time to wait, the skis need to be repaired by morning. Now and then we add a thought: How Venetian blinds are now high-tech, but still threaded by hand as there is no machine for it; How we grow numb to the taste of artisan bread; How modern craft is given value through art experts. What do we not see even though we should? Hands flying over varieties of skis, from the ‘80s to the newest model.

‘Luag!’ — for the first time, George looks at us with a proud grin, pointing at the clean surface where moments ago there were deep carvings: ready to delve another time into the snow.