Despite repeated attempts at domestication – thinning its core profile to make it easier to bend, adding carbon on the ends to lower swingweight – the Cochise remains a wild child that can only be tamed by a skier both strong and skilled. In contrast to the über-rockered smear sticks that represent the majority of the Big Mountain genre, the Cochise feels connected to the snow the way a hammer feels connected to a nail. In a field of ATV’s, the Cochise has the comparable power of a Panzer.

If you’re getting the impression the Cochise isn’t a softhearted helpmate to the caste of unskilled skiers, you’re beginning to catch on. I don’t pretend to know word one of any Native American language, but I’m willing to bet “Cochise” isn’t Apache for “crutch.” If you need help down the hill, call Ski School. If you have the skills, I refer you to the Cochise’s perfect score for Stability/Accuracy at Speed.

The Cochise skier needs a full skill set to rein in its appetite for hellbent descents. The Cochise’s 27m-sidecut radius won’t cut across the fall line unless its pilot knows how to drive it from a high edge angle, and it practically prohibits turning at a plodding pace. It earned by far its poorest grade for Short-Radius Turns, and its marks for Low-Speed Turning are nothing to write home about. The scores align with its behavior to a tee; the Cochise regards slow skiing as a sign of weakness and finds short turns as palatable as spinach ice cream.

The Cochise demands more commitment than most advanced skiers are willing to put on the line turn after turn. But it definitely has a constituency among athletic skiers who know how to lay it over. Experts who understand that the first rule of skiing crud is to charge it need a tool as stout as their style, one that will stand up to a full-on, fall-line assault. “A strong ski for strong skiers,” as Greg from Footloose sums up the crud-killing Cochise.