Could a Portable Lift Change Backcountry Skiing?

Nuts and Bolts

The PL1's concept is simple: a handheld, easily transported motor interfacing with paracord that pulls a single skier uphill.

To use it, a skier skins uphill in a desirable backcountry zone and plants a snow anchor (or uses a tree, as I did). Then, they fasten the anchor to the paracord before laying it down the slope they plan to ski. 

At the base, the handheld motor clips into the paracord and pulls the skier upward with an adjustable throttle—no skinning or climbing uphill is required beyond this point. They carry the motor in their pack on the downhill, separating the contraption from standard, static rope tows. The motor moves, not the rope.

After lapping Hamburger Hill a few times, I felt confident in answering most of my initial questions.

As you might expect, the device and its accoutrements took up a significant amount of space in my pack. While skinning to an anchor point, the PL1 does feel heavy (the device is 10.5 pounds, and the included paracord weighs about 4.5 pounds)—especially for those used to feather-like touring equipment. I doubt the Heavyweight Manifesto crowd would complain, though. 

The downhill might also present an issue for skiers hoping to tick off consequential lines. Personally, having the device in my pack would dissuade me from going upside down, launching a large cliff, or pursuing a distant alpine objective.

I had another thought: 1,000 feet of paracord is nothing to scoff at, but is there a practical way to session larger backcountry zones with the PL1? 

The Zoa team's answer was straightforward: multiple paracord lines. Notch a few up a ridgeline, and you could generate vertical access that rivals a conventional rope tow. However, multiple paracord lines aren't a prerequisite for using the PL1. I quickly learned that 1,000 feet is much longer than you think.

Because of Montana's minimal late-season snowpack, the slopes I skied were shorter than the length of the PL1's included paracord, which meant that after several laps, the motor still had plenty of charge left. 

Zoa co-founder Andrew Zwicker, who says he's a "roughly average-sized person," estimates that he can ski between 2,000 to 3,000 feet of vertical with the PL1 before the battery runs out. Slope angle and skier weight are the primary factors that impact battery life. Zoa's website includes an "expected vertical" chart that accounts for skier weight.

While these technical concerns—which essentially boil down to a backcountry skier's individual gear weight tolerance—may determine who the PL1 is for and isn't, they can't fully capture the sensation of actually using the device. 

I've ridden rope tows before but never experienced that upward sensation in the backcountry, which felt delightful and scandalous. The PL1 flawlessly works as advertised, and taking multiple laps without having to "earn my turns" reminded me of refusing to eat the broccoli my parents cooked and getting away with it.

The E-Bike of Backcountry Skiing?

Some may not be delighted by the promise of the PL1, though. Last November, Zoa shared a video of the PL1 in use on Instagram, which generated a flurry of comments —some positive, some negative. One skier sarcastically wrote, "Can't wait to take this into the wilderness." Zoa's reply? "We don't recommend using the PL1 in areas that fall under the Wilderness Act in the U.S."

Others worried that if the PL1 is widely adopted, the danger of unintentionally colliding with the paracord lines established by other skiers might become a problem: "Imagine turning a corner around a tree and either getting your head removed from your body… or catching a ski on it and flipping forward." 

The general fear, it seems, is that multiple PL1s could turn the backcountry into a messy crisscross of colorful tripwires.

While speaking with Zwicker and Robert Button—Zoa's founder and inventor of the PL1—the subject of e-bikes and their possible parallels with their device came up.

The PL1 and e-bikes do share a similar premise. A new technology arrives that, in an outdoor sport dominated by participants who prize their cardio strength and the sanctity of nature, could alter the status quo. Putting motors in new places has generated some inevitable controversy in both instances.

However, for Button, concerns that the backcountry will suddenly become overwhelmed with paracord and PL1s are overblown. "I think our critics often use more revolutionary language than we do," he said, noting that his device will probably remain more niche than something like an e-bike, mainly because, in most use cases, customers must already possess backcountry skiing gear and be willing to face the initial uphill (Zoa is in discussions with several parties about applications of the PL1 outside backcountry skiing, and some customers use the device for backyard lift setups). E-bikes, while more expensive, are otherwise less demanding.

Both Zwicker and Button assured me that the paracord the PL1 uses, which is stretchy, not taut like a lift cable, couldn't decapitate a skier. "We've tried it out!" said Zwicker, who had Zoa's creative director ski through the line while someone lower on the slope was using the PL1. He was fine. "It kind of is like a bungee; you hit it, and it just kind of like brings you to a slow stop," Zwicker continued. When the PL1 isn't in use, the accompanying paracord lays flat and loose on the snow.

Button remains aware that bumping into a surprise paracord line—even if the Zoa team believes such collisions won't end with a beheading—would be annoying. "The thing that worries me the most is that someone's going to use [the PL1] irresponsibly," he said. "My hope is that we do our best to educate our customers to be respectful of everyone and the environment." To that end, portions of the PL1's user guide are dedicated to considerate route planning and anchor placement.

The Weirdest Ski Day Ever

On my second day with the PL1, my old friend, Carter, joined me. This time, instead of skiing Hamburger Hill as I did alone, I suggested we head to the other side of the road at Lolo Pass, eyeing up a spot in an area called NASCAR.

NASCAR is bisected by a cat track popular among snowmobilers. Given the lack of snow, we both decided that bumping into—or accidentally getting in the way of—a sledder was pretty unlikely. Still, we ran the PL1's paracord below the cat track. I didn't want to be one of those "irresponsible" users Button feared.

Carter and I met at Crystal Mountain, Washington, 15-odd years ago, where we grew up skiing together. We reconnected when I moved to Missoula and have done our best to ski together when our differing work schedules line up. Of all these shared days on snow, using the PL1 created an entirely different, novel skiing experience. It wasn't exactly backcountry skiing, nor was it resort skiing—for a few hours, we operated in an often hilarious gray area.

After we wrapped up, I told Carter we might've just had "the weirdest ski day ever." I suspect the first chairlift riders, heli-skiers, and snowmobilers felt the same. Did they wonder if they were enjoying a brief fad or something bigger? Probably. But try as they might, they couldn't have predicted the ways these transportation devices would impact skiing.

"There's been an endless amount of innovations that have made the sport easier and more fun," Zwicker told me before I tested the PL1, optimistically positioning Zoa's product alongside past leaps in skiing technology. "I think we're just kind of like the next one in the line."