On a good powder day in the Tetons, there’s a decent chance Jonnie Merrill never clicks into his skis. The Victor, Idaho-based pro, known for high-speed, high-consequence big-mountain lines with Line Skis—will sometimes leave the plastic boots in the truck and reach for something most people still think is a novelty toy: a powdersurf board.
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Powdersurfing, at its simplest, is riding snow on a board with no bindings and no metal edges—more like a surfboard for powder than a snowboard. You ride it loose, often with a leash, steering with balance, pressure, and momentum rather than locked-in control. As Merrill puts it, “people just think it’s snowboarding, but in reality, it’s way different.”
Jonnie Merrill is known to most of the ski world as a powerful, technical big-mountain skier. He has filmed in Alaska, ridden some of North America’s most demanding terrain, and built a quiet reputation as a rider who thrives where lines get steep and consequences get real. What far fewer people realize is that one of the purest sources of joy in his winter life no longer involves ski boots at all. It involves a small, edgeless board, a leash, and a patch of snow most skiers would barely glance at.
Merrill is one of the highest-level powdersurfers in North America, and for him, the discipline is not a novelty or a side hobby. It is a parallel passion that now shapes how he chases winter. “It’s such a niche thing,” he says. “You have to kind of do it to respect it.”
He grew up snowboarding from second grade through much of high school before switching to skis after watching friends go bigger and faster. “I grew up snowboarding from second grade pretty much through mid high school,” he says. “Once all my friends in high school were going bigger than me on skis, I was like, I’m gonna switch to skiing.” That transition led him through Utah, Revelstoke, and into a professional ski career that unfolded naturally rather than by design. “Skiing professionally was never even on my list,” he says. “Kind of just something that happened naturally.”
Along the way, powdersurfing quietly took root after early sessions in Canada nearly a decade ago. What began as curiosity became obsession. “My first time kind of screwing around with it would have been Revelstoke, like a decade ago,” he says. “I just sort of tried it, and was like, man, this is sick.”
Powdersurfing sits far outside the mainstream of winter sports. Without bindings or metal edges, every turn depends entirely on balance, snow texture, and momentum. From the outside, it can look slow or limited. From the inside, Merrill says, it is one of the most demanding and rewarding ways to ride snow. “If you’ve never done it, then it’s hard to actually understand what you’re looking at,” he says. “Until you’ve kind of screwed around with one a little bit, you’re not really gonna have all the perspective.”
Stoke Per Vertical
For Merrill, the defining metric of powdersurfing is what he calls “stoke per vertical”—i.e., how much joy, flow, and fulfillment a rider gets from a small amount of terrain. In skiing, meaningful excitement often requires big objectives, long approaches, and serious commitment, especially for seasoned pros. Powdersurfing flips that equation completely.
“The smallest, dinkiest, like 200 vertical-foot pow field can be like the time of your life,” Merrill says. “For me to put plastic boots on my feet to do that is like a nonstarter.”
A simple 200-foot pow field can deliver the best run of the day. Low-angle trees that skiers might dismiss become canvases for endless turns, slashes, and creative line choice. Terrain that would never justify ski boots suddenly becomes irresistible. “It makes all of the in-between and all the low-hanging fruit way more fun and exciting,” he says.
That efficiency is everything. Living in Victor, Idaho, Merrill can work a full day and still sneak in multiple laps on Teton Pass before dark. No skins. No long climbs. Just movement, flow, and snow. “I could be working during the day and go out for like an hour at the end of the day and get several laps,” he says. “It’s just so easy to go get a few laps.”
It fills the tank in a way that modern big-mountain skiing rarely can on a daily basis. And that shift matters more as the years pass. “At this point, it just takes quite a bit for me to get excited on skis,” he says. “The threshold of excitement is so much lower with powsurfing.”
From Play to Big Terrain
While powdersurfing thrives in low-angle terrain, Merrill has also begun pushing it into bigger, more serious lines—including Alaska. That progression comes with harsh lessons. Unlike skis, a powdersurfer cannot sidehill through danger or outrun slough. The rider is tethered to the board, and violent crashes carry real consequences.
“It becomes hard because you’re just so vulnerable,” Merrill says. “Sometimes you’ll get trapped in that mindset where you’re thinking you’re on skis, but in reality, you’re not that capable on that board.”
He has learned that vulnerability firsthand, including a heavy impact to the face from a recoiling board that very nearly caused devastating injury. “I’ve been hit in the face, like right below my eye socket,” he says. “To this day I can still feel where it hit me.”
The risk is real, and it rises quickly as terrain steepens. Conditions become everything. Powdersurfing is far more snow-specific than skiing. Some days it simply does not work at all. Other days unlock a kind of flow that borders on spiritual. Merrill compares it directly to ocean surfing—completely dependent on timing, texture, and alignment.
“It’s such a condition-dependent sport that will either just completely not work,” he says, “or it’ll be the best day of your life.” And when it’s off, there is no forcing it. “If the waves are shitty…surfing just doesn’t even work,” he says. “It’s not even something that you go do.”
Alaska Changed Everything
Among all the places Merrill has powdersurfed, Alaska stands alone. Coastal snowpacks allow snow to cling to walls, spines, and banks in a way interior ranges simply cannot. That creates room for continuous carving, repeated slashes, and long, flowing lines that feel closer to waves than mountains.
“The best powdersurfing I’ve ever had has been in Alaska,” Merrill says. “I don’t think it’s a question at all.” In the Tetons, powdersurfing often becomes a rock-dodging exercise. “I’m hitting rocks all the time,” he says. “I’m breaking boards.” In Alaska, he says, “you can treat it like a wave.”
Even so, Merrill laughs at the irony that he sometimes chooses to powdersurf on days when his ski friends are scoring some of the best turns of their lives. “There were days where the conditions to be skiing were so good,” he says, “and here I am going out trying to find powdersurf terrain.” To outsiders it can seem irrational. To him, it makes perfect sense. “It’s different,” he says. “The feeling is different.”
The Longevity Factor
At 32, Merrill is far from done skiing big lines, but his priorities are evolving. After years of crashes, close calls, and heavy impacts, the idea of sustaining joy without constant trauma has become increasingly appealing. “The older I get, the more I like safety and just fun,” he says.
Powdersurfing offers adrenaline without repetitive violence. Feet rarely leave the snow. Impacts are minimal. And the psychological payoff remains enormous. “To get the same amount of adrenaline out of something that’s a little bit more mellow is pretty legit,” he says. “Your feet don’t even leave the ground most the time; there’s such little impact.”
For Merrill, powdersurfing now feels like skiing did when he was a teenager—creative, lighthearted, social, and driven by curiosity instead of outcome. “It’s like how I felt about skiing when I was, like, 19,” he says. “Once you have a community of people that are that passionate about it with you, it’s all about just finding flow with your buddies out there.”
He is careful not to position himself as a savior or spokesperson for the discipline. Powdersurfing communities have existed quietly around the world for decades, especially in Japan, Canada, and the Pacific Northwest. He sees himself not as someone trying to blow it up, but as someone trying to ride it honestly and document it with respect. “I don’t see myself as, like, this revolutionist,” he says. “I’m trying to be as respectful as I can.”
A Quiet Evolution
While the ski industry continues to chase steeper lines, faster speeds, larger tricks, and bigger moments, Merrill is chasing something else entirely—efficiency of joy. Less vertical. Less impact. More connection. More repetition. More flow.
“Less effort goes a lot further,” Merrill says. “Less is more on the pow surf.”
Powdersurfing does not replace skiing for him. It complements it. It balances it. It keeps the spark alive when the stakes of big-mountain riding grow heavier. And in an era where performance often overwhelms play, Jonnie Merrill is quietly proving that the most meaningful progression in winter might not be measured in feet or degrees at all. It might just be measured in stoke per vertical.
