Pretty Good for a Girl

by Tina Basich

  The guys I rode with would usually take big airs off cliffs quicker than I would. They’d approach a cliff jump and yell down to someone in the landing zone asking if it was clear and then just go for it. I guess I need to see where I’m going first. If I was too scared to just jump it, I would scope the landing and tell myself that after another snowstorm, when the landing filled in a little bit more, I would try the jump then. But sometimes this would mean I would miss out on the photo shoot because I took too long and I didn’t want to be that lame girl snowboarder.

  Personally, I think girls are more protective of their bodies and just naturally smarter about risk. It took me longer to calculate and decide if I was going to take the jump or not. I was constantly trying to push my snowboarding. So, to make up for taking too much time scouting, I would often take runs by myself and look at the jumps that I knew we were going to be filming in the next day or so and check them out a little closer. Ride to the edge, look down. Then ride around to the bottom and look up, judging the distance and the impact of the landing. That way when the team rolled up to the jump for the shoot, I already knew what the chances were for me clearing it or sticking the landing.

  My lifestyle meant I wasn’t always in Utah but traveling for competitions and other photo shoots and rarely in one place for very long. I was on the road more than I was home, which made relationships with guys unusual to say the least. As a professional snowboarder, I never had the typical dating experience like, “Want to go out Friday night, dinner and a movie?” It was more like, “Hey, are you headed out to Breckenridge next weekend?” or “You going to the U.S. Open in Vermont? OK, see you there…” and in those situations, a few so-called dates on the road can sometimes only add to the pressure that already exists at the competition. When I was dating Andy, we were on the same snowboarding team and traveling together to all of the contests. You would think that two professional snowboarders dating would be a perfect match, but it was too much pressure having our relationship wrapped up into one big combination of snowboarding contests, the same group of friends, the same sponsors, living together, and all the while trying to have a hold of our own parts of it. We were both competing for the same thing: attention from the same sponsors, competition results, and trying to get as many media photos in the mags as possible. Thing is, as a girl, and the only girl on the team, I felt like I had to at least do everything the guys were doing to stay in the game. Not only did I have to get big air jumping cliffs and ride fast and hang with the guys, but be cool, pretty, and feminine. For example, I liked riding with my ponytail flying behind me so there was no question of my femininity. I was proud to be a snowboarder girl. But that balance of being a great rider and a girl was schizophrenic, and there were only a handful of girls out there who were supposedly doing that dance right. Plus, when you’re twenty-two years old, you’re constantly striving for your own independence. There were some months during my winters when I would only be home four days out of the whole month. That’s hard on any relationship, and we ended up breaking up.

  Getting out of the heli in Alaska.

  Copyright © Scott Sullivan

  However, I had an unconditional relationship with the snow in Utah. When you feel the powder fields in Utah under your feet, flying through them and creating sparkling white diamond plumes with each turn down the mountain, you’re light as a feather, and it makes you love this feeling. It’s as if you’re not even touching the ground, and sometimes it seems as though the only reason the snowline is there below you is to remind you that you’re still on earth. It was unlike anywhere else I had ever ridden and it was the best big-mountain riding I knew of. Those experiences kept me there and one season turned into nine. In the summers, I’d come home to Sacramento to see friends and family, or ride up at Mt. Hood, Oregon, and practice for the upcoming World Cup tour in the halfpipe. In the winters, I’d spend as much time as I could riding fresh powder in what felt like my home state, whenever I wasn’t traveling to compete with my team. I was feeling so confident in my abilities when I rode Utah because where on earth could there be better snow or more diverse terrain or challenges like this here, on my mountain?

  But there was another place. A bigger place. Alaska. Other snowboarders on my team were talking about it. There were stories from other competitors and friends about the endless, untracked powder fields accessible only by seaplane or helicopter. They said you could land on unknown peaks that rocketed 5,000 feet up and you could ride right down to the sea. But no one owned Alaska or called Alaska their mountain. No one would dare and I didn’t really know why. It was kind of mysterious—people would say you have to see it for yourself.

  Some of my team members, including my brother, were talking about heading up there in 1995 for this new freeriding contest called “King of the Hill.” To me, Alaska seemed so far away and very intimidating. Eskimos lived there in igloos and spearfished, right? Plus, how could I ever pack for this one? But my Kemper team was going and as part of the team, I headed with them for my first real backcountry experience.

  This place checked my snowboarding reality fast. My first couple of trips up there, I snowboarded the worst I’d ever ridden. Alaska is so intimidating. Unlike a ski resort, there are no boundaries or clearly marked trails and warnings about cliffs and crevasses or shallow snow. It’s up to you to learn the mountain you’re riding. Alaska is Mother Nature at her most extreme—the weather changes quickly, snow conditions can change within one run—it’s vast and steep and bigger than all of us.

  The Kemper team, 1989.

  King of the Hill was held in Valdez, Alaska, which to the world is known for its oil spill. To us, Valdez is known as the Mecca of helicopter snowboarding for powder. The idea for the competition was really cool for freeriders—people like myself who liked to ride different terrain on big mountains. The concept was to challenge a snowboarder’s freeriding skills through two different big-mountain runs: one run was timed, one judged. Each run had different types of terrain, such as cornices, rocky cliffbands, and windlips in the snowbanks that served as natural jumps. So truly the best overall rider would win in each division—male and female. The combination of the two scores determined who was crowned the King or Queen of the Hill.

  The extreme competition runs already were almost too much to think about. I wasn’t sure if I knew how to ride all of those conditions even though I was pretty good in Utah, and it didn’t help that the final competition run was named “School Bus” because of its “educating terrain.” I didn’t want to be schooled in Alaska. The contest was purposely challenging—a true test—and accessible only by helicopter. But when I got there, it proved to be even more overwhelming, with helicopters and seaplanes flying around serving as transportation to and from the tops of the mountain peaks. Skiers and snowboarders with backpacks full of backcountry gear like ropes, small avalanche shovels, ice picks, and crevasse safety harnesses populated the small fishing town. The weather was always the topic of conversation because helicopters and planes could only fly on fair-weather days, which would determine whether or not we got a chance to ride because there were no ski resorts around. In Alaska, fair-weather days were few and far between. You could ask any snowboarder, and on cue they could hum the jingle to the Weather Channel. That’s why I always travel with my paint set. It’s nice to have with me on those down days when I’m stuck in my hotel room because of bad weather. I need more options than room service and Pay-Per-View. It’s nice to just turn on some music and paint. Sometimes I’d just nerd-out and bring my knitting with me, but since September 11, that’s one thing I’ve had to leave behind.

  To get to the top of a run in Alaska, you have to take a helicopter ride up the mountain. I’d never been in a helicopter before and I was more than nervous. I felt sick. I was also unprepared—I didn’t have a backcountry gear backpack or even water with me. All I had was a PowerBar. The thunder of the helicopter blades and the smell of the exhaust got my heart pumping from both fear and adrenaline. During
the first ride up to the peak, I didn’t even enjoy the amazing view because I was too busy staring at all the blinking lights on the console and watching the pilot.

  Exiting the helicopter at the top of the mountain was wild. The wind from the rotor-wash blasted snow into my face and it was a total white-out until the helicopter lifted off and left us on the peak. All of a sudden it was quiet and we were by ourselves in the middle of nowhere and on our own to make our way down the mountain. I was thankful that at least my brother was there. It was such a comfort to have him traveling with me. It made me feel safer.

  The top of the mountain was so much colder than down at the helipad and I hadn’t brought extra clothing like an experienced backcountry rider would have. But I was wearing an avalanche beacon, which is a transceiver used for search and rescue, in case I was buried in an avalanche. Still, I was numb to these dangers. Down below, I hadn’t thought it was really possible that I would be in an avalanche. And I had never even seen one before. At the top, on that lone peak, the reality was much different and I felt this new danger.

  During the King of the Hill competition, I was surrounded again by my peers who were also feeling the shock of new surroundings. The starting gate was intimidating because the first thing I had to do was jump off a cornice—a thick slab of snow overhanging the top of the mountain—just to start my first run. There was one small way to go around it if someone chose to do that, but I didn’t want to be the competitor who skipped the cornice. Plus it wouldn’t be good for my score. So to start my run off strongly, I dropped in. I had my hair in braids, and later, photos in magazines would caption me dropping in as “Pippi Rides the Bus in Alaska” because my hair was flying under my blue helmet. I went for a straight, fast line in the middle of School Bus, cut back skier’s right, then dropped a cliffband that I’d scouted from the helicopter. From down below where the judges were looking up through binoculars, they probably couldn’t see if I’d stuck the landing but would know if I didn’t come into view within a few seconds. Luckily, it was soft like Utah; I landed it and rode on. I made big swooping S’s down a steep powder field that led into a series of windlips and I finally got the courage to use one as a jump and catch air at the bottom. This completed my run, but I didn’t ride my best. I think everyone else was in the same frame of mind. I missed coming in first place that first year by just one point, coming in second to Julie Zell, who was an experienced big-mountain rider from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. But I thought, did that mean I was Princess of the Hill with second place? I’d take it. King of the Hill got me up there riding Alaska. And that trip made me realize I had a lot more to learn about snowboarding.

  * * *

  how to get sponsored

  1. Get on your snowboard as much as possible. The more comfortable you are the better you will perform.

  2. Enter a contest and show your stuff. No matter where you are, if you are rippin’ at a contest someone will notice. Reps from companies and other sponsored riders are always keeping their eyes open for new talent. Don’t get discouraged if you fall or suck the first time around. Take it all for the experience and it can lead to so much more.

  3. Meet people and reps who might have leads to free stuff and hookups.

  5. Don’t get discouraged if you don’t get what you want. You might not get the full ride right off the bat—maybe only a small sponsorship with some gear—but be grateful for everything you get because that attitude can take you far.

  6. A great place to meet reps and pros are at local demos and events. Don’t be shy—go around and introduce yourself. Sometimes it’s all about who you know and showing your enthusiasm for the sport.

  Most of the time companies want you to prove yourself first, so if you get a free board or a free T-shirt, wear it with pride next time you go snowboarding. Companies want great people representing their goods and people who are proud of their sponsorship.

  * * *

  Checking out the view in Alaska.

  Copyright © John L. Kelly

  The girls team appears in a Sims ad, 2000.

  Copyright © The Machine

  CHAPTER 7

  GIRLS ON THE SCENE

  Taking a year off from college wasn’t happening as long as I could keep this snowboarding career going. I was never going back to college full time. I used my extra time in the summers to take crash courses in graphic design and photography, realizing my other interests could be used in my snowboarding career. My competition results and accomplishments grew stronger as my riding got better and more diverse. I started taking snowboarding more seriously because I was eager to gain respect and represent my sponsors as a professional athlete. Snowboarding was turning into my career.

  During this time in the early ’90s, there was a big change happening for women in many sports, including tennis, golf, soccer, skiing. There was a global movement going on and women were getting more attention. It wasn’t just girls in snowboarding who were finally being recognized; women were stepping up and showing off their stuff. Sports were becoming a major part of our lives. They were empowering in so many ways. They weren’t just a hobby that we did for fitness anymore.

  Just twenty years earlier, sports were not even offered to girls in high school. My mom was a cheerleader and for women of her generation this was the only active program available. I read this story once that really moved me and made me realize what women have been through. In 1972 a woman named K. Switzer ran in the then men-only Boston Marathon. Race officials actually tried to force her off the course. She finished the 26.4-mile race and from that point on she ran marathons in a dress to make a statement that women are athletes too. Actions like these changed how women were accepted in sports. We were the result of an evolution for women in sports that was only just the beginning.

  My generation was lucky because we had soccer, softball, track, and other sports available to choose from. We didn’t even have to think about not having sports. That would have been so unfair. Plus, we saw female professional athletes in magazines and on TV in tennis, gymnastics, ice skating, and basketball. It was possible. Being a strong female athlete was a statement—not new but different and very strong and respectable. We were part of a generation of women allowed to think that way—that sports could be a fierce, strong statement and an independent career. In my generation, when we see other girls succeeding in sports, we don’t think, “I can’t do that.” It’s more like, “If she can, I can too.” That’s how we think. Anything is possible.

  With our participation in contests, more and more girls started snowboarding and getting involved. In the earlier years, there was a handful of girls at each contest. One handful. Over the years, that number kept growing. There was a chain reaction. Not only was the number of girls in the sport growing, but we also had girls in the industry or business side. There was Lisa Hudson who worked at Airwalk, one of my first sponsors, plus Gaylene Nagel working at Sims, Darcy Lee at Cold As Ice apparel, Monica Steward at Bonfire snowboard clothing, Kathleen Gasperini at Snow-boarder magazine. It was a combination of the girls in the industry and the athletes that really was the key formula for making such a strong representation. Without these women, our place in snowboarding would never have been so prevalent. They helped create our culture and show the world what we had going on.

  I now had other female snowboarders to look up to because there were more women competing, even though it was still a male-dominated sport. These girls pushed me to ride harder because we now realized that younger girls would follow, too, and we no longer had the excuse of being the only girl in the group. My first major event in Tahoe, the OP Pro at Squaw Valley back in 1990, had all the big-name Tahoe girls like Bonnie Learey, Roberta Rogers, my friends Angie Dominguez and Heather Mills. Plus, the girls from Utah and Colorado—Jean Higgins, Susie Riggins, and Lori Gibbs. I had competed against these girls in Colorado at the World Championships but now I had a few tricks I could do in the halfpipe and I was eager to see how I stood up to the competition. Riding and
competing in the halfpipe was my favorite discipline. I never got into the racing side of snowboarding because it was too much like skiing, which represented what everyone else was doing and I wanted to be different, trying new tricks and pushing the level of the sport. I love the feeling of catching air and doing tricks. It was fun to get a jam session going with a group of snowboarders and try new ones. Because snowboarding was less than ten years old, we were curious to see how those tricks would score at the next competition.

  Jean Higgins was new on the scene and the girl to beat. She was known for trying a new trick called a J-tear, an inverted flip with a half twist. Jean had perfected her J-tears to the point where she was flipping them at the end of the pipe, and even though she wasn’t quite landing them yet, it was a big deal and earned her big points in competition. That day on my halfpipe run, I pulled off my layback stall on the frontside wall, an ally-oop on my backside wall, and a 180-to-fakie (ending backward) at the end of the pipe. I finished my run knowing it was going to be a close finish with Jean Higgins’s score. They announced it over the loudspeaker that I’d won by two points. I was so excited and my mom and dad were there cheering for me, which meant so much more.

  Rocking the halfpipe.

  Copyright © John L. Kelly

  While I was best at the freestyle event, I still entered all disciplines at that contest. We all did. Nobody had focused on specializing in one discipline yet. I remember surprisingly making it to the finals of the dual slalom. I was at the top of the starting gate getting ready to compete head-to-head against Lori Gibbs. She was from Utah and like so many girls from Utah, was an excellent big-mountain rider, too. She was also known to be a fast racer. She had all the right gear, a race board, hard boots, and racing pads. Of course I didn’t have any of the proper equipment for racing. I was a freestyle rider and most comfortable on my freestyle board, which had a flipped-up tail for going backward, unlike an asymmetrical race board, and softer boots and bindings. I had a Domino’s pizza box wrapped around my arm as a gate protection pad (we’d order pizza the night before so we could make our “gear” for dual slalom race days). Lori slammed her race board down in the starting gate and looked over at me and said, “Let’s see what you got, Basich.”