This article was written by guest contributor Cory McMullen
“Bugs got into the wood and ate it. I cut what was left into thin strips for the skis. The bugs created those lines — that look. I’m sad I don’t have any more. Most skis laminate multiple layers of wood, but I cut solid ash cores for mine. My skis are like Djembes…they resonate.”
At the crossroads of aesthetics and functional design stands Peter Steltzner and his workshop: Rabbit on the Roof.
Peter’s wife answered the door when I knocked. It opened directly into their living room, where breakfast was still on the table. I felt like an intruder, but she assured me I was not. We walked across the room and into the workshop. Skis — beautiful, unique, spectacular skis — were everywhere. She called for Peter the way my mother calls for my father: the way wives call to husbands when they don’t know exactly where they are, but know they are lost somewhere in whatever task, passion, or obsession has currently trapped them.
I became lost in the skis — their grains, their stains, their personalities. No two were alike, yet all were born of wood. Hues from blonde to walnut were all in attendance. No color touched these skis that did not come from nature; there were no vibrant orange or turquoise top sheets, no images of mountain peaks or animalistic visages, and no surrealist scenes from dreams. They looked like your grandfather’s skis—or better yet, his father’s—if they had been made by an artisan who understood modern design. The bindings struck a strange chord; their metal mechanisms clashed with the beauty of the grain, their sheen looking foreign against nature’s patterns.
I was admiring a pair carved by termites when Peter entered the workshop—the “Maestro of Mahogany.” An American who has lived in Chamonix, France, for thirty years, Peter is in his 60s. He wore a puffy jacket that has seen as many long days in the workshop as it has on the skin track. Round tortoiseshell glasses and manicured facial hair framed a face that seemed to see more than the average person. He stared intently and with purpose. Perhaps this was the artist’s eye—the way Michelangelo or Picasso might have stared—or perhaps I just saw something special in Peter because I loved his work. He saw that appreciation in my eyes and began to share his creations.
The first pair were the ones crafted by bugs, with deep black squiggles drawing a collage from the tip that faded into clean wood near the tail. Next was a pair with smooth vertical lines and rounded “step-downs” that elevated the area where the bindings would be mounted. Then came a medium-hued pair with long grains spanning the length of the ski; on these, Peter had inlaid squares of darker wood in starburst patterns, split 50/50 between the left and right ski. Some had checkerboard patterns on the tails—diamonds of contrasting wood coalescing into a timeless design—while others featured brass caps or a single blonde stripe down the center, like a stinger on a surfboard.
These skis are not “wall hangers” meant solely for decoration. They featured modern sidecuts, smooth rocker profiles, and sophisticated, upturned tails. Peter’s creations are intended to be skied, and it seemed they all were. Peter told me that 95% of his skis are custom orders. He speaks with prospective buyers to understand their style, terrain, and preferred snow conditions before modifying a design to match. To their owners, these skis become a favorite possession; the friend who told me about Peter loves his pair so much he refuses to ski anything else.
As we continued through the shop, Peter showed me a pair with musical notation soldered into the wood — a Bach concerto. The owner, a cellist, chose his favorite piece to help him find harmony with the mountains. One of the toe bindings had pulled out, and the cellist had sent them back for repair. I could tell these works of art saw plenty of snow and the occasional rock by the number of pairs in for service. They were like wayward sons who had gotten into trouble and returned to their father for help.
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I noticed a ski covered in swirling black lines that looked as if they had been drizzled on like a Jackson Pollock painting. Peter explained it was a rare wood with ebony veins. He pulled the ski’s twin from behind it, revealing a front half that was charred black. Years ago, his entire shop had burned down, and he lost hundreds of skis. Regret painted his face as he spoke, but a new shop rose from the ashes. Peter keeps the burnt pair as a memorial to what was lost.
We talked for hours. Peter spoke of wood the way my grandfather spoke of horses, or the way an old ski bum speaks of snow. Each of his skis is adorned with a metal logo cast in a wax mold that burns away during the process, meaning every single one is unique. Like the wood itself, every logo patinas in its own way. Peter told me he loves seeing skis return after years of use; he wants to see how they have aged apart from him.
I asked Peter if I could take a photo of him with his work. A smile of pride crept across his face, and though he tried to stop it from becoming a full grin, he couldn’t quite conceal it. He picked through his inventory, staging special pairs under his sign before settling on a chocolate-hued set with telemark bindings. He had engraved a relief of birds and the sun into them using a pointillist style of small etched dimples. He leaned them against his shoulders and looked at me expectantly. There were no words to confirm he was ready — just a look from those seeing eyes. I knew my role and snapped the photo.
