LAAX, Switzerland—Though night comps still exist in halfpipe boarding—the LAAX Open keeps the time slot alive annually—there was something overtly nostalgic about standing on the side of the pipe on finals night, the industrial, stadium lighting beaming over the venue, bright enough to eliminate any stars that would have existed in the dark sky above us. It wasn’t just shining down; there were columns of colored light shooting up, oscillating throughout the sky, making the falling snow glitter like some precision-cut Swiss diamond. The vision became trippy, almost strobing, as the bass from the speakers bounced off the crowd.

It was the spectacle of it all—along with the large cash prize that The Snow League doles out—that brought me back. I’m thinking 2010 era Dew Tour, standing as a child on the deck of the halfpipe at Mount Snow, watching pros I had not yet heard of do tricks I could not comprehend.

I’m brought back because now, a decade and a half later, as our society reveres—almost fetishizes—nostalgia while simultaneously longing for the newest, best, and brightest. It’s a line The Snow League walks beautifully, something I realize only after the triple cork in front of me snaps me from my reminiscent daze.

The snow, just a flurry as practice began, fell with more intensity as the night progressed. What was once whimsical soon became frustrating before settling into the final stage: dangerous. Rumor had it that the medivac—were it to be needed—couldn’t fly in the stormy conditions. And, considering visibility decreased to only a couple of feet, less than the height the riders were sending it out of the pipe, it seemed the competitors couldn’t either.

The event was on a weather hold, but things weren’t looking good, a shame since it was the finals. Finals of the event, yes, but the finals, too, of Snow League. LAAX was the culmination, the cap in an inaugural season that spanned three continents over a year and a half.

So, we waited, hoping the storm would let up. The riders had been riding so well, and we had only gotten a taste of what we’d come to Switzerland to see.

I took a walk, leaving the deck of the halfpipe for warmer, safer conditions indoors. My mind wandered in step with my feet, thinking back not to fifteen years earlier, but to midday, to the quarterfinals. It seemed like a different world, one where the storm clouds were swapped for sun, and the only concern was whether the pipe was getting too slushy.

The drama between all the athletes had been finals-level. Maddie Mastro and Sara Shimizu were paired together in their quarterfinal match, with Maddie dropping first to put down one of the greatest runs in women’s halfpipe history—a double crippler on the first hit and a front-dub 10 on the last—only to be bested seconds later by Sara, who let her own front-dub 10 rip on the first hit. Maddie, had she thrown that same run in, say, the Olympics or an X Games, would be a guaranteed podium finisher. But this was duals, head-to-head in a bracket style format where luck of the draw can have as much to do with advancement as riding. For Maddie, it’s a shame. But, to play devil’s advocate for the fans out there, it’s a testament to the format. You could imagine Sara riding against a lesser (though, at this level, that’d be hard to find) competitor, or at least one that wouldn’t put up as much of a fight. If that were the case, then Sara wouldn’t need to respond with such vigor. Putting two top-tier competitors against each other in an early matchup makes for a hell of a show.

I sat in the lodge, slowly overheating in the jacket I still wasn’t sure I needed to take off. A large screen sat against the wall, playing snowy coverage of the announcers trying to fill time with man-on-the-street coverage of people trying to wait out the storm, either in the bar or in the crowd. The snow was falling more heavily now, and things were looking worse than before. How had it all turned? The night was so clear two days ago when the men were just whetting their appetites in qualifiers. The crowd was out then, too, gathered with the same intensity as finals night. And why wouldn’t their enthusiasm be matched? It’s not like the riders were holding things back. Triples were going down, and the airs were just as big. Come to think of it, they were bigger. Much bigger.

Kaishu Hirano has a bit, a shtick. Think Deadlung doing a Deadlung or, since we’re on the subject of 2010’s era nostalgia, a young Zeb Powell doing a coffin slide off a knuckle. For Kaishu, his move is the method, and to appropriate snowboarding's most influential and recognizable trick as his own, that takes a little bit of finessing.

The fineness in question is amplitude, as pure as the Swiss mountain air we were breathing. Maybe you saw Kaishu “unofficially” break the world record with a 25.2 air in Aspen a month or so ago. Well, “unofficially,” at LAAX, Kaishu boosted 25.4 feet. With a three-person slingshot into a full tuck, Kaishu bee-lined it into the halfpipe with a lack of fear that can only accompany a man who should be in therapy. He hopped into the pipe, travelling nearly a full paint-line down on his entrance, and then he flew, out of this world and into the next, waiting until his apex to extend the method. At that moment, fully making it his own.

It’s probably safe to assume most people in snowboarding are here because school wasn’t really their thing, opting out of the classroom for time on the hill. However, even the most basic understanding of physics will tell you that the gravitational ebb and flow of falling over 25 feet into a 22-foot vertical wall is too much to handle. In layman's terms, had Kaishu tried to follow up his first air with a second, he would have g’d out. So, he slashed, pretzelled it to switch, carrying enough speed still to hit a cab double on his third hit, before completing the rest of an amazing run. A run that, even with the complete omission of his second hit, was so impressive that the judges scored him in the 60’s. How could they not? Kaishu Hirano did the biggest air ever done in a halfpipe…unofficially.

The event had been called. One of the emcees made the announcement. There was a rumble of groans in the lodge, and I stepped back outside to take in the scene among the athletes. The snow was still falling, falling harder now than it had been. Calling the event was the right move; nobody could ride in this. As for scores, the quarterfinal results for the men and the semifinal results for the women would be the final results, with Yuto Totsuka and Sena Tomita taking home the overall championship, seeing as one needed to be crowned at the last event of the season.

I made my way to the stage. Glowsticks bounced to the techno music that played while cigarette smoke mingled with the steam of breath in the night air. Europe.

One by one, the athletes were called. For the women: Xuetong Cai in third, Rise Kudo in second, and Sara Shimizu for the win. The men saw Chaeun Lee in third, Yuto Totsuka in second, with Ryusei Yamada taking home the gold.

It had been a long day, a long couple of days, actually. My memory of the whole thing began to interweave, and it was hard to tell what had happened when. I thought about that line Snow League, and all of halfpipe snowboarding for that matter, had been walking—the one between nostalgia and progression. It’s a balance. Our pallets are cleansed by a timeless Kaishu method, so we can watch the progression on finals day without being jaded.

It’s hard to say if these nuances existed back in the day, or if I simply have the luxury of the present. I’m sure a decade and a half ago, a method still carried weight, just like progress was moving the sport forward. People like Danny Davis, Danny Kass, and Torah Bright, icons of either style and progress in their own right. And of course, there was Shaun White, the man with his finger on the pulse of it all.

The champagne sprayed me, along with the rest of the crowd. The winners were celebrating on stage, smiling, thumbs over the tops of their bottles, dousing each other and the legion of cheering fans. I looked across the stage and saw Shaun White standing in the wings, smiling, his finger on the pulse of the empire he built.

Maybe the question of nostalgia is the wrong one to ask. Maybe what we should be asking is: how much has really changed?