Riksgränsen [Raw] feat. Phil Casabon, Henrik Harlaut, Jacob Wester, and Kim Boberg

Profile and significance

Henrik “E-Dollo” Harlaut is one of freeskiing’s defining figures, a Swedish original whose blend of contest dominance, film culture, and scene-building has shaped how park and street skiing look and feel. A two-time Olympian for Sweden and a multi-time medalist at the X Games, he holds the all-time records for Ski golds and total Ski medals at that event. His 2013 Big Air breakthrough—landing the first nose-butter triple cork 1620 on the Aspen stage—reset expectations for what creative, controlled progression could be. Beyond podiums, Harlaut helped lead a rider-first movement through the B&E era with Phil Casabon, co-hosting the B&E Invitational in France and elevating film parts and tours that centered style as substance.

Harlaut’s brand ecosystem mirrors that identity. He rides for Armada Skis and headlines his own street-savvy label, Harlaut Apparel, while long-running support from Monster Energy has kept cameras on his projects from Scandi parks to city rails. The result is a rare dual footprint—elite competitor and cultural steward—whose skiing reads clearly at full speed and whose projects continue to influence how freeski stories are told.

Competitive arc and key venues

Harlaut’s contest résumé traces the modern ladder. He announced himself to a global audience at Aspen’s Buttermilk, where his Big Air gold and that historic nose-butter triple 16 became part of freeski lore. In the years that followed he stacked Big Air and Slopestyle medals across Aspen and Europe, and even added the newer Knuckle Huck title to underline his versatility. On the Olympic stage he represented Sweden at Sochi 2014—finishing sixth in slopestyle—and returned at PyeongChang 2018, a testament to endurance in a field where the trick list never stops evolving.

Venue context explains why his runs travel so well. Buttermilk rewards multi-feature flow and composure under heavy cameras. Oslo’s and Norway’s stadium builds prize amplitude on single hits. Spring blocks at Sweden’s Kläppen refine rhythm and variety across dense rail sections and medium-to-large booters. Olympic courses—from Sochi’s expansive build to the sculpted lines at Korea’s Phoenix Park—demand immaculate takeoffs and exact landings. Across those settings, Harlaut’s hallmark has been readability: tricks that make sense at normal speed because the inputs are functional and on time.

How they ski: what to watch for

Harlaut skis with deliberate economy and musical timing. On rails, approaches square up early, the body stays stacked, and lock-ins look decisive rather than dramatic. Surface swaps resolve cleanly; presses have visible shape; exits protect speed for what’s next. On jumps, he manages spin speed with deep, stabilizing grabs—safety, tail, blunt—arriving early enough to calm the axis and keep the hips centered over the feet. Directional variety—forward and switch, left and right—appears without breaking cadence because every move serves the line instead of a checklist.

Two cues help you “read” a Harlaut lap in real time. First, spacing: he leaves room between tricks so each one sets angle and speed for the next, a habit that makes full runs feel like sentences rather than word salad. Second, grab discipline: hands find the ski early and stay long enough to influence rotation, not just decorate the frame. That approach explains why even his biggest spins look unhurried—and why editors can present his shots at normal speed without slow-motion rescue.

Resilience, filming, and influence

Results alone would place Harlaut among the greats; his cultural work cements it. With Phil Casabon he hosted the B&E Invitational at Les Arcs, a rider-designed jam that treated slopestyle as an open canvas and set a template for today’s style-first showcases. On film, he’s produced projects that framed progression as story, from the two-year deep dive “Salute” to the wider canon built with Inspired-era collaborators. The common thread is clarity: honest speed, early commitments, centered landings. That’s why his parts age well—you can see the trick math at 1x speed—and why younger riders can copy the mechanics without needing a mega-budget build.

Harlaut’s influence also shows in how brands and events talk about skiing. He helped normalize the idea that style is not garnish but technique—grab choice that stabilizes an axis, spacing that preserves momentum, and rail decisions that protect cadence. As new disciplines and formats appear, the standard he champions remains the same: make difficulty legible, so viewers feel it the first time and still find details on the tenth watch.

Geography that built the toolkit

Place is the skeleton of Harlaut’s skiing. He moved to Åre as a kid, and the resort’s varied pistes and night laps forged edge honesty and repetition; if you want to understand the base layer, start with the discipline that Scandinavia’s firm snow demands. Spring sections at Kläppen layered in rhythm on dense features, teaching him to protect speed through quick in-runs and short outruns. The annual pilgrimage to Aspen’s Buttermilk sharpened broadcast composure, while European city builds and invitational courses rewarded creativity and line design. Stitch those environments together and you get a toolkit that travels: patient takeoffs, functional grabs, tidy exits, and runs that hold their shape from first rail to last landing.

Equipment and partners: practical takeaways

Harlaut’s kit is built for repeatability and feel. With Armada he’s long ridden park-capable platforms tuned for pop and predictable swing weight, a setup that rewards nose-butter entries and early-grab spins. Apparel through Harlaut Apparel leans into rider-led durability and movement on long filming days, while backing from Monster Energy helps turn ambitious concepts into finished films and event moments. For skiers borrowing from his playbook, the hardware lesson is category fit over hype: choose a symmetrical or near-symmetrical park ski, mount it so butters and presses feel natural without sacrificing takeoff stability, keep bases fast so cadence doesn’t depend on perfect weather, and tune edges to hold on steel yet soften contact points to avoid surprise bites on swaps.

There’s a process lesson, too. Build lines around momentum. Use the grab as a control input rather than decoration. Finish tricks early enough to ride away with speed and time. Those habits are why Harlaut’s biggest moments—whether a stadium jump in Aspen or a creative rail garden at a spring session—read cleanly on camera and hold up on rewatch.

Why fans and progressing skiers care

Henrik Harlaut matters because he turned elite difficulty into a language anyone can follow and then used his platform to grow the culture around it. He has the X Games medal record to satisfy the stats crowd and a film-and-event legacy that continues to pull the sport toward rider agency and style with substance. The skiing itself is readable at full speed, the choices are intentional, and the execution holds up under the brightest lights. For viewers, that means segments and finals worth replaying; for developing riders, it’s a checklist you can practice on the next lap. Protect momentum, commit early, let the spot decide the move—and make it look good because the mechanics are honest. That’s the Harlaut blueprint, and it’s why his influence runs from Åre to Aspen and across every park where skiers learn to turn hard things into clear, compelling lines.

Profile and significance

Jacob Wester is a Swedish freeski original whose career traces the sport’s last two decades—from the dawn of doubles in park and big air to steep, foot-powered lines in the high Alps and Arctic Norway. Born in 1987 in Stockholm, he burst onto the scene with runner-up at the Jon Olsson Invitational in 2005, stacked wins at major showcases in 2008, and claimed Big Air bronze at the X Games in Aspen in 2009. Those contest years overlapped with film parts that traveled widely, including Matchstick Productions titles during the La Niña era and later projects that he directed and edited himself. In the mid-2010s Wester pivoted toward ski-mountaineering, documenting bold descents around Chamonix and the Lyngen Alps while keeping one boot in the media world through Real Ski Backcountry and YouTube vlogs. The through-line is clarity: whether it’s a switch double off a scaffolding jump or a no-fall couloir above glacial seracs, Wester favors mechanics that read at full speed and age well on a tenth watch.

Across results and films, he has served as a bridge between eras. Early mentorship and friendly rivalry with fellow Swede Jon Olsson helped push the “doubles movement” into the mainstream. Later, his transition to big mountains—often without helicopters, relying on skins, crampons, and timing—modeled a path for park athletes who want to climb and ski serious lines without losing style. By the 2020s, that dual identity made him a fixture in both rider-run web edits and marquee film tours.

Competitive arc and key venues

Wester’s competitive résumé is short but sharp. The breakout crest arrived in 2008 with wins at Freestyle.ch Zürich and the North American Open slopestyle in Breckenridge, followed by Big Air bronze at Winter X Games XIII in 2009. Aspen’s Buttermilk served as the stage where his measured spin speed, deep grabs, and calm outruns competed with the heaviest trick lists of the day. He later returned to the franchise in a different format with Real Ski Backcountry, contributing a filmed part instead of a judged stadium run—an early sign of the pivot to storytelling that would define his next chapter.

Film venues explain the second act. In 2010–11 he featured in Matchstick productions like “The Way I See It” and “Attack of La Niña,” before training his lens—and edges—on steeper ground. Around Chamonix, he skied prominent lines accessed from the Aiguille du Midi, threading features above the Vallée Blanche and the Pas de Chèvre. Farther north, he chased spring windows in Norway’s Lyngen Alps, where summit-to-sea terrain and fast-changing weather reward patience and exact reading of snow. In 2025 he appeared in Matchstick’s “After the Snowfall,” including a nerve-testing mission in Lyngen—evidence that the contest technician grew into a dependable big-mountain operator without shedding his park timing.

How they ski: what to watch for

Wester’s skiing is a study in readable difficulty. In the park and on man-made jumps, approaches square up early, grabs come in fast and stay long enough to stabilize the axis, and landings finish over the feet so the outrun breathes. That habit—treating the grab as a control input, not decoration—explains why his bigger spins look unhurried and why editors seldom need slow-motion rescue. On rails he favors decisive lock-ins and surface swaps that resolve cleanly; presses carry shape instead of wobble; exits protect speed for the next feature.

Transplanted into big mountains, the same habits show up as line literacy. He commits to entries early, trims speed with small, on-purpose checks instead of skids, and lets the ski run where terrain allows so momentum survives the next choke. In no-fall terrain, that economy keeps exposure from turning into panic. If you’re watching a Wester clip in real time, look for two cues: spacing between moves that preserves cadence, and hand-to-ski contact that quiets rotation or dampens chatter when the snow turns chalky.

Resilience, filming, and influence

Street and steep skiing share a requirement: patience. Wester’s output over the last decade shows a willingness to do the slow work—forecast watching, boot-packing, digging platforms, or walking away from objectives that don’t line up. That judgment is why his steep segments hold up under scrutiny and why partners keep calling when a project needs someone who can ski with composure and tell the story afterward. His Real Ski Backcountry appearance and a long string of self-produced edits demonstrated that contest skills can translate into narrative, while features with Matchstick and other crews gave those stories broad reach.

The influence runs in two directions. Park specialists looking for longevity study how he preserved his mechanics while expanding his canvas. Big-mountain skiers chasing fluency on airs copy his grab timing and centered exits to keep slashes and threes functional rather than flashy. Most of all, his career reframes “style” as technique you can practice: early commitments, functional grabs, tidy landings, and line choices that make sense the first time you see them.

Geography that built the toolkit

Place is the skeleton of Wester’s skiing. Stockholm’s small, icy hills gave him repetition and edge honesty. Contest travel refined broadcast composure at Buttermilk and rhythm on the long park lines of LAAX and Breckenridge. Then came the mountains that reshaped his identity. In Chamonix, the Aiguille du Midi changed scale and consequence; even “easy” ramps demand exact timing when exposure is real. In Norway, the Lyngen Alps offered kinetic summit-to-fjord terrain where snow, wind, and light shift by the hour. Stitch those environments together and you get a toolkit that travels: protect momentum, finish movements early, and let the line keep its shape from the first move to the last safety spot.

Equipment and partners: practical takeaways

Wester’s equipment history mirrors his phases. During the contest and early film years he rode athlete-driven platforms from Armada Skis—predictable swing weight for doubles, stable takeoffs, and edges that tolerated rail contact. As he migrated into the backcountry and then the steeps, you’d often see him on freeride setups from Rossignol, a category built for centered landings and trustworthy behavior in variable snow. For viewers translating lessons to their own kit, the specifics matter less than the fit: choose a ski that matches the job (symmetrical park tool for rails and jumps; directional freeride platform with dependable edge hold for couloirs), keep bases fast so cadence doesn’t depend on perfect weather, and tune edges to balance bite on ice with forgiveness at the tips and tails.

On the media side, long relationships with film outfits like Matchstick Productions underline a broader takeaway: pick partners and projects that let technique show. Whether the backdrop is a stadium jump, a spring park, or a shaded face above town, the camera should amplify the skiing instead of hiding it. That’s been Wester’s north star from Aspen to the Alps.

Why fans and progressing skiers care

Jacob Wester matters because he turned elite, early-2000s park difficulty into a durable language, then carried that language into consequential mountains without losing clarity. He has the medal to satisfy the stat sheet and the filmography to teach by example. If you’re a fan, his segments reward rewatching because the trick math is transparent. If you’re a skier in progression, his blueprint is actionable: square approaches, use the grab to control the axis, finish moves early enough to ride out centered, and make choices that protect speed so the line stays intact. That combination—results, readability, and range—is why his influence runs from Stockholm rope tows to Aiguille du Midi trams and up to the ridgelines of the Lyngen Alps.

Profile and significance

Kim Boberg is a Swedish freeski original whose influence runs well beyond podiums. Born in 1991 and raised in the rural municipality of Älvdalen, he emerged through athlete-led films and Europe’s scene-driven culture before becoming a longtime pillar of the Armada Skis team. His career threads through Field Productions segments, a standout part in Armada’s “Oil & Water,” the web series “Shred ’n Breakfast,” and an all-urban entry at the X Games Real Ski 2019 video contest. Just as important, he created the spring gathering that many pros now circle in pen: Kimbo Sessions, hosted at Kläppen, a rider-led “anti-contest” focused on creativity and flow. Across all of it, Boberg’s skiing reads clearly at full speed—calm approaches, deep functional grabs, decisive rail lock-ins, and landings that keep momentum alive.

That clarity now carries a hardware imprint. Armada launched a pro-collab park ski built around his habits—the Kimbo/Kimbo 95—and he pairs it with dependable retention from Tyrolia. Between a decade-plus of film work and a community event that sets the tone for spring sessions, Boberg has become both stylist and steward for modern freeskiing.

Competitive arc and key venues

Boberg’s résumé favors films and culture-first gatherings, but he still took his turn under the broadcast lights. His Real Ski 2019 part—shot primarily on Scandinavian architecture—showed the same method he’s known for in longer edits: early commitments, obstacle-spanning tricks, and enough space between moves that viewers can follow the story without slow-motion. The more enduring competitive “format,” though, is Kimbo Sessions at Kläppen. Since the mid-2010s it has evolved into a weeklong lab where the world’s top riders experiment on a custom park at golden-hour pace, an approach that inspired similar jam-style showcases elsewhere. Even in years when snowpack forces changes, the concept remains a benchmark for how rider-run events can spotlight progression without a heat sheet.

Venue context explains the feel of his skiing. Kläppen’s snowpark is dense with options and tuned for rhythm rather than spectacle, which rewards patient takeoffs and tidy exits. Scandinavian street spots—Stockholm, Östersund, and beyond—compress decision-making into short in-runs and quick outruns. Those places built habits that travel: Boberg’s line design works whether the background is a city staircase or a sun-softened rail garden at a spring session.

How they ski: what to watch for

Boberg skis with deliberate economy and musical timing. On rails, approaches square up early, shoulders stay stacked, and lock-ins look committed rather than theatrical. Surface swaps resolve completely; presses carry visible shape; exits protect speed so the next feature arrives naturally. On jumps, he manages spin speed with deep, stabilizing grabs—safety, tail, or blunt depending on axis—arriving early enough to calm rotation and keep the landing centered over the feet. Directional variety is built-in—forward and switch, left and right—but never disrupts cadence because each trick serves the line rather than a checklist.

If you’re trying to “read” a Boberg clip in real time, track two cues. First, spacing: he leaves room between moves so each trick sets angle and speed for the next, turning a full run into a sentence instead of word salad. Second, grab discipline: hands find the ski early and stay long enough to influence rotation, not just decorate the frame. Those details explain why heavy spins look unhurried and why editors can present his footage at normal speed.

Resilience, filming, and influence

Street and spring filming are process-heavy—shovel and salt, rebuilds after busts, and the judgment to walk away when conditions won’t hold. Boberg leans into that rhythm. Field Productions features and Armada projects like “Oil & Water” captured his patience and trick math; later pieces such as “Butterfly” distilled years of Kimbo Sessions clips and Real Ski shots into a cohesive portrait. The influence radiates through the formats he favors. Kimbo Sessions turned a private spring shoot into a shared, rider-first canvas; The Bunch’s films reframed progression as story rather than stunt. Younger skiers study his early grab timing, obstacle-spanning choices, and the way small, on-purpose speed checks never spill into landings.

Because the message is practical, it spreads. Resorts reference the Kimbo template when shaping flowy late-season parks; brands point to his segments when they talk about predictable swing weight and edge life; and coaches use his runs to teach momentum protection and centered finishes. Boberg’s legacy is as much about how to build and share skiing as it is about what tricks to do.

Geography that built the toolkit

Place is the skeleton of Boberg’s skiing. Älvdalen’s proximity to Kläppen supplied years of repetition on firm mornings and slushy afternoons, a daily cycle that demands honest edge angles and patient takeoffs. Scandinavian cities added the urban syllabus—tight approaches, quick redirects, and runouts that punish sloppy speed checks. When The Bunch pulled projects farther afield, those habits traveled intact: protect momentum, finish movements early, and let the line keep its shape from first feature to last landing.

Equipment and partners: practical takeaways

Boberg’s setup mirrors his priorities. The Armada Kimbo is a park-focused design with a buttery flex for presses, a full-wrap edge for durability on steel, and a tail insert that keeps response predictable under load—features that turn technique into repeatable results on rails and medium booters. Bindings from Tyrolia provide trustworthy retention and stomp feel on mixed surfaces. For skiers translating this into their own kit, think category fit over model names: choose a symmetrical or near-symmetrical park ski and mount it so butters feel natural without sacrificing takeoff stability; keep bases fast so cadence doesn’t depend on perfect weather; and tune edges to hold on steel while softening contact points to avoid surprise bites on swaps.

There’s a process lesson too. Build lines around momentum, not spin count. Treat the grab as a control input rather than ornament. Finish tricks early enough to ride away centered with time to set the next move. Those habits make Boberg’s skiing readable at full speed and give progressing riders a blueprint they can actually copy.

Why fans and progressing skiers care

Kim Boberg matters because he fused elite street-and-park difficulty with a community platform that keeps the sport honest. The films prove the point; the Kimbo Sessions tradition spreads it. For viewers, his segments and spring laps are endlessly rewatchable because the decisions are clear and the execution is calm. For skiers trying to level up, the takeaways are concrete: square the approach, use the grab to stabilize the axis, leave every feature with speed, and design the run so it reads like a story. That’s the Boberg blueprint—from Älvdalen to Kläppen and into every park where style doubles as technique.

Profile and significance

Philip “B-Dog” Casabon is a Canadian freeski icon from Shawinigan, Québec, whose style-first language—presses, butters, nollies, reverts, and shiftys that breathe—reshaped modern park and urban skiing. He rose through night laps at his local hill, Vallée du Parc, and became one of the most influential riders of his generation by proving that creativity, definition, and flow can outweigh brute force. His cultural footprint is matched by hardware: back-to-back gold medals at X Games Real Ski in 2018 and 2019, plus the 2018 Fan Favorite nod, cemented his status as a peer-elected standard. In the same window, he released the widely praised film “En Particulier” with Brady Perron and was named Freeskier’s Skier of the Year, a rare double for a rider focused on film and street. Casabon matters because he made style specific and teachable—clips that hold up frame by frame and a movement language that any progressing skier can study and apply.

Competitive arc and key venues

Casabon’s competitive résumé is unconventional by design. Early in his career he tested himself in slopestyle at Aspen, making multiple Winter X Games appearances when the discipline was still defining itself. As urban skiing’s broadcast moment arrived, he shifted to segments and rider-curated showcases that better matched his voice. The pivot paid off: his 2018 X Games Real Ski gold, delivered alongside the Fan Favorite award, was followed by a repeat gold in 2019—rare back-to-back wins that confirmed his dominance in the all-video, all-street format. In the culture-defining B&E era at Les Arcs, he collected “Best Style” honors in both 2014 and 2015 on a skate-inspired setup designed to reward touch and originality. Those landmarks—Aspen’s spotlight, Real Ski’s medals, and Les Arcs’ style awards—map the arc of a skier who used competition as a proof-of-concept for ideas refined in edits.

The places tied to his name help explain the skiing. Vallée du Parc gave him the repetition and switch comfort that show up in his lines. Aspen’s big-build tempo at Aspen Snowmass taught wind calls, long decks, and pressure management under cameras. The B&E park at Les Arcs encouraged butters into spins, long presses, and transfers that value feel over amplitude. Together they shaped a rider who reads features instantly and turns modest speed into full sentences of skiing.

How they ski: what to watch for

Casabon skis with economy and definition. Approaches stay tall and neutral. He sets rotation late, locks grabs early—often with unmistakable tweaks—and lets the trick breathe rather than rushing the set. On rails, the signatures are square entries, long-held presses and backslides that are obvious to the eye, surface swaps with minimal arm swing, and exits where the shoulders stay aligned so momentum carries into the next feature. Even when the spot is complex, he organizes edge pressure early to keep the base flat through kinks, which is why his landings read inevitable rather than rescued. On jumps and side hits the same patience appears: pop comes from the feet up, grabs are defined before 180 degrees, and the upper body stays quiet so the skis do the storytelling. The result is a blueprint any rider can study—calm entry, patient pop, early grab definition, square-shoulder exit.

Resilience, filming, and influence

Casabon’s influence runs through films and community projects as much as medals. He built a decade-long catalog of replayable segments, culminating in the late-2010s run that paired Real Ski golds with a festival-tested film presence. The work emphasized honest speed, horizon awareness, and compositions that make slope angle and body organization clear—choices that help viewers learn, not just watch. In the B&E era, his partnership with Henrik Harlaut created a platform where style was the scorecard, then pushed those ideas back into parks, streets, and product design. Interviews and long-form conversations from this period reveal a method that prizes durability over hype: habits you can repeat when conditions are imperfect and cameras are rolling.

That durability—plus a willingness to mentor—keeps his influence alive in a generation that learns from edits. Coaches use his clips to illustrate patient setups and clean exits; riders break down his presses and shifty timing to build their own lines. He is both reference and proof: you do not need the world’s biggest jump to show world-class skiing if your movements are organized and your choices are clear.

Geography that built the toolkit

Place explains the method. Shawinigan’s Vallée du Parc is a human-scale hill where repetition is abundant and mistakes are obvious. Night laps there forged the switch comfort, precise edging, and patience that define his rail game. The spotlight and wind at Aspen Snowmass layered in big-feature timing and composure. The creative modules at Les Arcs rewarded a horizontal vocabulary—presses, butters, wheelies—that Casabon helped popularize, proving that expression at low to medium speeds can be as compelling as amplitude. When you trace the map, you see the fingerprints in every clip: local-hill repetition, big-park patience, and skate-park creativity applied to snow.

Equipment and partners: practical takeaways

Casabon’s long relationship with Armada extended far beyond sticker placement. His pro model BDog and the experimental BDog Edgeless in Armada’s Zero Collection were designed to serve his priorities—predictable flex for presses and butters, confidence on switch landings, and swing weight that stays honest on slower-speed pops. The gear lessons for progressing skiers mirror that logic. Choose a true park ski with a balanced, medium flex you can bend without folding. Detune the contact points enough to reduce rail bite while maintaining dependable edge hold on the lip. Mount close enough to center that presses sit level and switch landings feel neutral. Keep binding ramp angles that don’t tip you onto your heels. Then build a process that matches the hardware: film laps, compare shoulder alignment and hip-to-ankle stack against a short checklist, and repeat until the movements become automatic. The setup is the scaffold; the habits are the house.

Why fans and progressing skiers care

Fans care about Philip Casabon because his skiing ages well. The clips prioritize timing, organization, and line design over noise, which is why they survive slow-motion scrutiny years later. Progressing skiers care because the same choices are teachable on normal parks and real snowpacks. If your winter looks like night laps on a small hill, weekend missions to a destination park, and a few street sessions with friends, his blueprint shows how to turn limited speed and imperfect conditions into memorable skiing. The medals—back-to-back X Games Real Ski golds and Fan Favorite in 2018—are milestones; the lasting takeaway is a method: calm entry, patient pop, early grab definition, square-shoulder exit, and a flow that connects a run into a single sentence. That is why B-Dog remains essential viewing for anyone who cares about freeskiing’s style, substance, and future.