Words: Colin Wiseman 2018-01-04 16:30:58
It could have been the rain—which, to state the obvious, was not within her control. We were sitting in the lobby of a Best Western in Campbell River, BC, discussing Plan B over a stale continental breakfast. Outside, the murk of a mid-January Pineapple Express had set in. Muggy, drizzly, foggy warmth. Unapologetic. It was only day three of a well-planned 10-day Vancouver Island alpine adventure, but it seemed we were screwed.
Plan A had begun well enough. At least for Marie, fellow rider Charles Reid, and her erstwhile filmer/team manager, Sean Black. They were working on Arbor Snowboard’s new flick, Cosa Nostra. Before Kael Martin and I arrived, they spent a few days splitboarding near Marie’s west coast home in Ucluelet, overnighted in an undisclosed backcountry location, and splitboarded their way into some easy-access powder and pillows. Then, they indulged in a heli-bump into an obscure zone. She said it was marvelous, that she could damn near see her cob house from the top.
But by the time we met up at Mt. Cain Alpine Park Sunday morning, it was warm and crusty. Rain, rain and more rain in the forecast. We’d ripped some groomers with the partied-out locals, then bailed to Campbell River. Which led us to Plan B.
“Should we go to Whistler? Looks like it might turn to snow,” Marie offered. “Or maybe Revelstoke?”
That was a tricky proposition. We had things to do on the island. Mountains to climb. Marmots to encounter. Old-growth rainforests to explore. Then again, a tropical flow on the coast often means powder in the interior, and we all had the next week free.
Marie dialed a Revelstoke hotel. “My name is Marie-France Roy,” she said without a hint of Quebecois inflection. Maybe that makes her sorry, I thought, having to employ a dumbass American accent to navigate her on-the-road lifestyle.
“Sorry,” she told the other end of the line on cue.
So, we found ourselves on the road to Revelstoke, a hundred miles south, one crossing of the Salish Sea, then some six hours on the Trans-Canada to the east—the two-lane boogie across British Columbia. And for the next week, it snowed. We rode the resort at Revelstoke, toured around Rogers Pass, shuffled from seedy to not-so-seedy hotels, and generally enjoyed ourselves under cloudy skies—difficult for filming, fun for boarding. Marie took it all in stride, remaining lighthearted, good for a laugh, down for whatever. Even when she fell ill and couldn’t ride for a day, she greeted us with a smile (and said she was sorry).
Now 32 years old, Marie’s been voted Snowboarder Magazine Female Rider of the Year, filmed with Absinthe, and produced and directed her own environmentally conscious snowboard flick, among other achievements. She’s lived the good life as one of the best riders in the world for more than a decade. She got there through her own volition—nobody handed her the golden ticket to snowboard stardom. In fact, she had to deal with a lot of shit. She was bullied by her older brothers’ friends while learning to ride, and then worked full-time restaurant and housekeeping jobs every summer from 11 years old until turning pro in her early 20s. But she toughed it out.
From my perspective, Marie’s got nothing for which to be sorry. But still, there’s that guilt. It’s in the contrast between a cruisy life as a globetrotting pro snowboarder and an environmentalist’s heart. A dream job and a dreamer’s global awareness. A pulpit from which to preach and a rural kid-sister’s humility. But it’s driven her to act—to pursue an environmentally conscious voice while balancing an often-fleeting career on snow.
During the last morning of the trip, I jumped in the shotgun seat of her Jetta wagon for the hourlong drive to the trailhead. Can you guess the first question? Sorry, Marie.
The Snowboarder’s Journal: Why are you so sorry?
Marie-France Roy: I know it’s over the top, but it’s the way I was raised. I always admired humble and respectful people. There’s not enough humility in the world, so, to people who give me shit for saying sorry too much, well, sorry for trying to just be nice [laughs].
Where did you learn to be nice, then?
I’m not claiming I’m nice, I can be very mean—well, I’ll sound mean, but it’s just jokes. Sometimes I’m missing a little bit of finesse, very classic French-Canadian. But, I grew up with two older brothers, Alex and Jean-Francois, and mainly was raised by my father, Rene. We lived between two small towns an hour and a half east of Quebec City, on the north shore of the St. Lawrence River. It’s really pretty there, but very isolated. We were a little bit socially awkward.
How was it being raised by a single father?
My parents were together until I was 9, then my mom got depression pretty bad and was gone. My dad is such a champ. He had a construction company and would wake up at 4:30 every morning and do paperwork, then leave the house at 6:30. He would make croissants, and they’d be out of the oven by the time we’d get up. He would come home, work some more and go to bed at 8:30, exhausted. When my mom left, he decided to get back into skiing to get some fun for himself. He said, “If you guys wanna help me with everything—laundry, cooking, cleaning the house—I’ll get you guys a family season pass every Christmas.”
To which mountain?
Le Massif, which was a half-hour away. I was 11, then. My brothers went straight to snowboarding, but they were like, “You probably should just try skiing first.” I went skiing one day and I was like, “This is bullcrap.” The next year I started snowboarding. I spent the whole season following my dad around, because my brothers were too cool. My dad loved moguls, so we rode moguls all season long and that’s how I learned how to snowboard. We both had those hats with the fur and the ear flaps. The next year he forced my brothers to take me around. They were cool with it, but their friends were mean to me. They would have spitting contests on my board on the chairlift, seeing who could have the gnarliest one, and it would freeze over.
And you just put up with it?
I was so shy, and I just wanted to snowboard with them. I wouldn’t say a word all day. They were older and gnarly and I had no friends who snowboarded. I just wanted to be a part of the team, so I shut up and followed. They were like, “You suck,” all the time. But I did suck. Fair enough.
But you got good eventually?
It took awhile. I was really scared at first. They were 15, 16, their testosterone was booming, they just wanna have fun with the boys and they have to deal with this young sister that’s tagging along. Maybe it made me able to put up with more.
Living out in the bush, were you hunting and fishing and all that?
It was full-on country living. My grandma showed me how to catch rabbit with snares and cook it. I would wear this necklace with a rabbit’s foot to school and I’d crack his fingers once a day. I loved growing up there and I think it’s a huge part of who I am. That part of Quebec isn’t too well known and it’s gorgeous in the summer—there’s whale watching, I’d race cross-country mountain bikes on the weekends when I got older, and in the fall all the leaves would turn beautiful colors.
I’m really fortunate to have grown up there, but I was always attracted to traveling. My dad traveled a lot, and I would stare at all his pictures from Mexico and BC. He used to be a bit hippie when he was younger. Now he’s in Mexico. He started surfing at 62 and he drives from Quebec to Mexico every year in his van, then camps out right on this beach and surfs every single day. That’s all he talks about.
Do you think your dad’s hippieness influenced where you’re at now, with your cob house in the woods?
Deep down, yes. The best memories I have from growing up is when he would take us camping and fishing. I never feel better than when I’m outside hanging out, or exploring and finding new places. It’s in our deep-down ancestry, I think. Fire; like we’ve been staring at fire for so long, for thousands of years of past lives. I believe in all that shit. I think it’s also important to be open-minded, and I believe in karma. I am just so goddamn lucky—either I’ve done something really amazing in my past lives or I’m gonna pay real hard for this life later on. I’m kind of scared for my next life because this life has been unreal.
Maybe you feel compelled to apologize a lot for fear of karmic retribution.
Maybe that’s it. I always have been so sorry my whole life, I have so much guilt and I don’t know where it comes from.
You told me the other day that you’re surprised to still have a career in snowboarding at this stage. Where did it all start?
I couldn’t say that I never dreamt to be a professional snowboarder, but I didn’t think I was good enough to ever become one—it seemed impossible. I kept doing contests because I enjoyed traveling to events and meeting other people who loved snowboarding. My brothers were so good at snowboarding—they could have been pro, they won pretty much every contest they ever entered, but they didn’t care to really keep it going. Eventually I went on my own. I did this small event at a local mountain and this guy Olivier Charbonneau and his crew were there judging. He had a small magazine in Montreal called Objectif X and invited me to come stay at his house and do bigger contests. I was 16 with my first car; I’d only been to Montreal once in my life, but I went. He helped me get my first sponsor with Rome [Snowboards], which was just starting out at the time.
It took you a few years to really pursue it, though?
I did three years of applied ecology in college. It was amazing—I wanted to work in conservation. I kept snowboarding on the weekends and doing events. The first summer, I moved to Whistler with $300. I thought I was killing it in English, but once I got out there, I couldn’t understand anyone. I lived in a car with my first boyfriend, who was a psychopath. If I talked to a guy or even looked at one, he would yell at me. I had to go to the skate park without telling him. I worked housekeeping seven days per week. I only had money to go boarding one day that whole summer and it was the best day ever. I got so sunburnt, and I was like, “I’m coming back for sure.”
But I decided to be smart. I finished my degree and did my internship at the Vancouver Aquarium, then I moved to Whistler. I worked as a server at The Keg and did housekeeping for six months, did a few contests, did well. Then, one night Derek Heidt, the Oakley team manager for Canada, showed up at The Keg with a small contract. Apparently, he’d been trying to find me for a while. I didn’t even realize people made much money from snowboarding. He helped with travel, getting me to the big contests, and [Snowboarder Magazine’s] Superpark. We renegotiated my contract the next year.
Were you a park rat, or riding the whole mountain?
Le Massif didn’t have a park, so we would just go in fields and build jumps or find logs in the forest to jib. In Whistler, they had metal rails, a big park, and when it was snowing there was the best terrain, so I would ride everything. I started filming the next year with Misschief, then did the Rome movie. They were like, “We want Marie to have a full part—we want all you guys to help her and this is important.” That part in Any Means (2007) really helped me.
I didn’t have much consistency in contests. It was early on in slopestyle, and each run counted. It was frustrating that if you tried to do bigger and harder tricks in your run and fell, you’d lose. The podiums would just be straight airs and back 3s. I liked filming better because you could be more progressive.
Now you’ve been filming for almost a decade?
Yeah. I filmed for Absinthe for a few years, thanks to Annie [Boulanger]—I call her the godmother—and even though it wasn’t my best performance, it was really cool to have that experience. Annie was already so experienced and she’s strong and opinionated, I learned so much from her and I am so grateful. But that second year was when I broke my neck [in 2010].
Leading up to it, I was kind of drained. I wanted to quit snowboarding. I can’t deal with expectations really well, and I was tired and felt like I was being pulled in every direction, not getting time to ride for myself, not learning much—only riding when there was a camera rolling. I never thought that I could get tired of snowboarding, but I did. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted a real job.
Then you got hurt.
I was in Whistler, in Brandywine. It was late March and I barely had any shots. The thing we tried that day wasn’t really working out and we went to wallride the glacier, but the run-in wasn’t working. So, I was like, “I’m just gonna air from the top I guess, and land on this blue ice and ride out.”
Nobody seemed to really like the idea, but I was feeling pressured. [Filmer] Paul [Watt] even said, “You’re gonna go really small right? Really slow?” There was a cornice hanging over the takeoff, so I didn’t look from the top. In my head before I dropped I was like, “I always go too fucking small; don’t be a pussy for once.”
I got in the air and knew right away I was going too fast. I landed on my feet, whiplashed back and broke my C2, which is called a hangman’s fracture. I was lucky—it was stable. If it had moved, I would have been paralyzed.
What do you think about having pressure to perform versus shooting snowboarding as you see it?
This all happened for a reason and I knew it. I wanted to quit. I felt so much guilt to be getting paid to snowboard while I wasn’t fully loving it. I felt guilty to lead this life of luxury, in a way, promoting consumption through marketing of products. But I also felt so lucky—I was torn. I believe that everything’s meant to happen, it’s like I planned it all without knowing it. I remember telling my team manager one time, “Sometimes I wish I was hurt so I could take a break.”
So, you got hurt and you took a break?
They said it would be a yearlong recovery, but, luckily, I was surfing four months after.
Did it change your outlook on life?
A lot of people thought I would be done [after the injury], so all these expectations were gone. I took that time to just chill at home on the island. I had just bought my house and I was never there. I wanted to connect more with a feeling of home. I did a week-long course on sustainable building on Salt Spring Island. Then my brother helped me learn a lot that summer and during my own building [process] I was playing in the mud, spending a lot of time alone surfing and thinking about what I really want, and what makes me happy.
That’s when the idea of making The Little Things came to me. It wasn’t easy [to make a movie], but it was really fun. I wanted to do something more meaningful than just snowboarding because I felt torn—I felt guilty, but at the same time, am I supposed to live in the woods with nothing in order to feel credible? I was like, “No; snowboarding is actually awesome, and I love snowboarding, it’s just some parts of it that are bumming me out right now. And, if anything, I can make snowboarding into something I want to express.”
So that guilt was coming from being told what to do, not riding in your own way?
Exactly. It felt so purposeless. I felt like giving back and being myself within snowboarding, which is still something I’m trying to figure out—I still don’t think I’ve found my true gift of giving back. I’m not that good at snowboarding, that’s the other thing that gives me guilt, I’m not naturally talented at it.
Really? [Ed: We think she’s a very talented snowboarder.]
I don’t think so. My brothers were naturally talented. But I’m more like what [former Canadian pro rider] Natasza Zurek always said: “What you don’t have in talent, you can make up for with hard work.”
How did it feel to make a movie with a message?
I don’t feel a lot of purpose filming a standard part. I would like to work on projects that go beyond that. I’m just stoked to be in a space where there is more to it than just getting gnarly. How many more movies can we make, how much bigger can people go? More creative content can connect people to nature and other things that matter in life.
Which is?
Whatever makes you happy, in a way. To me, it’s finding respect for others and the environment, and trying to find your own fulfillment too. But it can be anything! And purpose and passion—it makes me sad that so many kids can’t find that. They seem to be swimming in a sea of over-entertainment and overstimulation that leads to bad stuff.
And we’re too busy being insular and secure versus going out and
exploring life.
Especially for girls. If I can be somewhat of a role model for girls to just go after something that truly makes them happy besides their looks—it’s about giving them something to be genuinely stoked on, and supporting that. Women aren’t at the same level as men in action sports, they might not be doing the gnarliest shit, but if you’re encouraging more women to get out there, it’s better for the whole society. It makes them more confident, grows their self-esteem, keeps them healthy mentally and physically and that makes for better children. I don’t think people understand that concept enough—supporting anyone to achieve their full potential will enhance the whole world, no matter their background, gender, or age.
I’ve been really lucky. We’re so lucky to just have been born here, in Canada. And to be able to snowboard for a living, to do something I feel passionate about and that’s admired, it’s a huge privilege. So, if I can even just lead by example, at least I’m giving something back, to help other people find their own source of growth and happiness.
With snowboarding being so big in the media compared to how many people actually do it, does that give us enough of a platform to lead by example? Especially if we move beyond the standard of a three-minute, action-focused part that’s only for other snowboarders?
Some brands seem to stay focused on the same formats and recipes that we’ve had for so long and aren’t open to much change outside of the core culture. But they don’t see that the brands are actually hurting themselves because it’s not reaching enough people outside of its own little bubble. I believe that keeping the core is super important but sometimes snowboarding has been kind of shooting itself in the foot by being so unwelcoming and rebellious. Then they’re like, “Oh, nobody is buying snowboards.”
Maybe the messaging needs to evolve because the culture has evolved. Your average snowboarder isn’t a 14-year-old teenager who smokes cigarettes and hates the police anymore.
Which is cool in a way—I like the punk attitude of snowboarding’s culture, but at the same time it can be much more diverse. And if we can reach a more diverse group of people through media or marketing or even individually, that’s awesome. It’s weird that some brands are scared of sending environmental messages. When I did The Little Things, I approached some brands who said, “Well, if we talk about [environmental responsibility] everybody is gonna look at us and pinpoint all the things we don’t do right.”
It’s the same as the guilt I had, where I felt I couldn’t claim I care about the environment as a pro snowboarder. It’s hypocritical, and I still get that guilt all the time. I still have people criticizing me for using snowmobiles and helicopters. I sold my snowmobile, but that’s not gonna have a huge impact. We can encourage people to make small changes that add up, like making helicopters and airplanes more efficient, or maybe traveling less than they used to.
It’s not gonna change overnight. But at least we’re raising a voice for change and all the critics are doing is talking shit on our efforts. It’s not productive. We need major action and we need it now. Climate change is too big of a problem to be fixed overnight by one person, but the negativity is slowing down the evolution of our thinking in a very big way. It’s humanity’s biggest challenge and it can’t be black and white like that. Even if I can’t live without a considerable footprint, at least I can have a small voice encouraging people to care about the environment.
If you try to have a voice, there are always going to be people that try to oppose your voice, no matter how big or small. It takes a lot of energy and courage to make a statement.
It’s important to keep a balance in your life. Some people have been at this [environmental] fight for a very long time and it got too heavy and they quit. To be fighting up front and protesting, I admire that, but I think there are also other ways to encourage change. Influencing people to get out there more and appreciate the value of nature, that’s also very valuable, even if it takes some resources to do it. And it’s easier in a way—it’s not as offensive to some people. You’re not just at war with your words, but you’re trying to fight for nature with love.
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