It’s a crime of sports journalism that ESPN overlooked this week’s second annual Gelande Quaffing World Championships, held at the base of Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, Wyoming. Before we get to our exclusive coverage, however, you might ask, what IS gelande quaffing, anyway? Well, think of it as the Chinese downhill of apres ski. It doesn’t have a motto, but perhaps “There’s nowhere to go but down” would be appropriate.

Like so many other bastard sports, demented stunts, and brilliantly twisted ideas, gelande quaffing was born in a bar. Back in the 1980s in a dank but spirited drinking hole called the Bear Claw (now known as the Village Cafe), tucked literally in the shadow of the Jackson Hole tram, a bartender slid a frosty mug the length of the bar. Unchecked by friction, it fell off the end, where it was caught mid-air by a near-penniless ski bum, who promptly pounded it—quaffed it, as it were—and slammed the empty mug down. Competition ensued. A schport was born.

NO MORE WORDS, DUDE—GIVE ME THE PHOTOS.

Gelande quaffing lived in obscurity until about a year ago, when Jon Klaczkiewicz, a Jackson filmmaker working on a documentary of the Jackson Hole Air Force, an underground ski fraternity responsible for gelande quaffing, launched the world championships with help from Cloudveil Mountain Works. In last year’s hard-fought inaugural event, the team from the Village Cafe, or VC, edged the JH Ski Patrol.

NO MORE WORDS, DUDE—GIVE ME THE PHOTOS.

Yesterday, on a dumping, windy afternoon, the patrollers showed up for vengeance, the VCers strutted with their trophy, and 14 other teams stretched, paced, and nervously pre-quaffed. The rules, at least in the preliminary rounds were simple: Racing the clock and the team next to you, one teammate slides a full mug of beer the length of a bar, another catches it in the air, chugs it, slams the glass down, and switches places. Points are awarded for clean catches, extra points for handle catches. Late rounds get more complex, with mandatory spins of beer and body, under the leg catches, and more.

The V.C. schooled the field in the first round of 16, but the trollers made a strong showing. Crowd favorite Mangy Moose, decked in Pabst Blue Ribbon union suits, seemed a comer. Powder Magazine, to the shame of ski journalists everywhere, flamed out with teetotalling effort. It had company with seven other teams.

NO MORE WORDS, DUDE—GIVE ME THE PHOTOS.

The most fiercely pitched battle came in the semi-finals between Teton Village Sports and the V.C. The clock expired and judges ruled a tie. With the crowd of several hundred shouting, “RE-quaff, RE-quaff”, the shop and the bar went head to head three more times until the VC emerged, sloppy and shaken, but alive.

Alas, it’s hard to repeat as champions with everyone gunning for you: The V.C. fell to the Moose in the final four.

The trollers, meanwhile, slipped into the finals with little drama, where they proceeded to dispatch the Moose with judge-pleasing moves like taping a lighted avalanche bomb fuse to a mug. Revenge is sweet. And it smells like beer and gunpowder.

NO MORE WORDS, DUDE—GIVE ME THE PHOTOS.

Didn’t get enough gelande quaffing here? The Verte Blog has videos with the history and wrapup of last year’s worlds.

Tagged as: skiing