Amager Bakke: Copenhagen's Ski Slope Power Plant

Introduction: A Mountain in the Flatlands

On the edge of Copenhagen’s industrial harbor, where the city’s flatness meets the Øresund, a strange silhouette rises. It is not a church spire or a corporate tower, but a sloped block of concrete and steel, its summit dusted with artificial snow. This is Amager Bakke, also known as Copenhill, and it is perhaps the most paradoxical building in Scandinavia: a waste-to-energy power plant that doubles as a ski slope, a hiking trail, and a climbing wall. Designed by the Danish firm BIG (Bjarke Ingels Group), it opened in 2019, and it has since become a global icon of what might be called "hedonistic sustainability" — the idea that green infrastructure need not be grim, but can be a source of joy.

Amager Bakke sits on the island of Amager, just a few kilometers from the city center, in an area that was once a dumping ground and is now being redeveloped as a residential and recreational district. The building replaces an older incineration plant on the same site, and it is part of Copenhagen’s ambitious goal to become the world’s first carbon-neutral capital by 2025. But rather than hiding the plant away, BIG chose to make it the centerpiece of a new public park, a mountain where none existed. The result is a building that asks a provocative question: can a power plant be loved?

The Architecture of Disguise

At first glance, Copenhill looks less like a building and more like a piece of terrain. Its most striking feature is the continuous sloping roof, which rises from ground level at one end to a height of 85 meters at the other, creating a 400-meter-long ski run. The roof is clad in a green synthetic surface that mimics grass in summer, allowing visitors to hike or picnic on it, while in winter it is covered with snow from a recycling system that uses the plant’s own waste heat. Beneath this artificial mountain, the plant’s machinery — furnaces, boilers, turbines — hums away, processing up to 400,000 tons of waste per year, enough to supply electricity and district heating to 150,000 homes.

BIG’s design is a masterclass in architectural sleight of hand. The building’s volume is wrapped in a perforated aluminum facade, which is meant to evoke the stacked layers of a geological formation, with windows that glow at night like a lantern. The interior is organized around a vast atrium that houses the control room and visitor center, where you can watch the waste being dumped into the furnace from behind a glass wall. The chimney, instead of being a simple pipe, is a vertical ring that emits a plume of steam — but only when the plant is running at full capacity, and only after it has been cleaned of pollutants. This is architecture as storytelling, where every element is designed to communicate a narrative of cleanliness, efficiency, and fun.

The ski slope itself is a feat of engineering. It is made of a patented plastic material called Neveplast, which is lubricated with water to simulate real snow, and it is groomed by a small piste machine. There are two lifts — a carpet lift for beginners and a chairlift for more advanced skiers — and the slope has a vertical drop of 85 meters, making it the longest artificial ski slope in the world. But the experience is not just for skiers: a hiking trail zigzags up the slope, and at the top, there is a viewing platform with panoramic views of the city, the harbor, and the bridges to Sweden. On a clear day, you can see all the way to Malmö.

The Ethics of a Joyful Power Plant

Copenhill is often cited as a prime example of BIG’s philosophy of "pragmatic utopianism," which Bjarke Ingels describes as "the idea that we can create a better world by making it more fun." But this approach raises ethical questions. Is it appropriate to make a waste-to-energy plant — a facility that burns garbage and emits CO2, even if it is cleaner than coal — into a tourist attraction? Does the ski slope distract from the fact that incineration is not a truly circular solution, and that Copenhagen’s waste is still contributing to climate change? And does the building’s cheerful aesthetic amount to a form of greenwashing, masking the uncomfortable realities of consumption and waste?

Defenders of the project argue that Copenhill is a necessary step in the transition to a low-carbon society. Waste incineration is far better than landfilling, which releases methane, and it can be part of a mixed energy system that includes wind, solar, and biomass. Moreover, by making the plant visible and accessible, BIG has created a public space that engages citizens in the question of where their waste goes. The ski slope is not just a gimmick; it is a way to make environmental infrastructure tangible, to let people experience the energy system rather than hide it away. In a city that prides itself on sustainability, Copenhill serves as a constant reminder of the trade-offs involved in urban living.

Yet there is something unsettling about the juxtaposition of snow and smoke. The chimney, which is designed to emit a donut-shaped ring of steam, has been nicknamed "the smoke ring," and it has become a viral sensation on social media. But the rings are not just a playful gesture; they are a way to signal when the plant is operating at peak efficiency, and they are accompanied by a real-time display of emissions data on the facade. This transparency is admirable, but it also highlights the fact that the plant is still burning fossil fuels — albeit in the form of non-recyclable plastic and other waste. The ethics of making a power plant joyful, then, depend on how you frame it: as a celebration of human ingenuity, or as a distraction from the deeper changes needed in our consumption habits.

Copenhagen’s Green Brand

Copenhill is not just a building; it is a flagship for Copenhagen’s self-image as a green city. The Danish capital has long been a leader in sustainable urbanism, from its extensive bike lanes to its ambitious goal of becoming carbon neutral by 2025. The city’s brand is built on a narrative of cleanliness, efficiency, and quality of life, and Copenhill fits perfectly into that story. It has been featured in countless magazine articles, Instagram posts, and architecture tours, and it has become a symbol of how a city can turn a liability into an asset. But this branding has a darker side: it can obscure the fact that Copenhagen, like all wealthy cities, has a large ecological footprint that extends far beyond its borders. The waste burned at Copenhill comes not only from Danish households but also from imported garbage from other countries, including the UK and Italy, which pay Denmark to incinerate their waste. This has led critics to call the city a "waste colonialist," exploiting other nations’ trash to feed its own energy needs.

Moreover, the ski slope is an expensive amenity that requires constant maintenance, energy, and water — resources that might be better spent on more fundamental sustainability measures. The plant cost around $700 million, and the ski slope alone cost an estimated $100 million. Is it justified to spend so much on a recreational facility when the city could be investing in insulation, solar panels, or public transit? Proponents would argue that Copenhill pays for itself in tourism revenue and public goodwill, and that it has inspired a generation of architects to think more creatively about infrastructure. But the question remains: does the joy of skiing on a power plant help or hinder the fight against climate change?

Why It Still Matters

Despite these criticisms, Copenhill remains a landmark of 21st-century architecture, and it matters for several reasons. First, it demonstrates that buildings can be more than just functional boxes; they can be civic landmarks that foster community and engagement. The ski slope has become a popular spot for locals and tourists alike, and it has transformed a previously industrial area into a destination. Second, it challenges the notion that green infrastructure must be hidden or ugly. By making the power plant visible and inviting, BIG has created a model for how we can integrate essential services into the public realm, much like the ancient Romans built aqueducts that were both functional and monumental. Third, it raises important ethical questions that are relevant to all cities facing the climate crisis: how do we balance the need for immediate solutions with the imperative to reduce consumption? How do we make sustainability attractive without falling into greenwashing? And who gets to enjoy the benefits of such projects — the affluent skiers or the broader public?

In the end, Copenhill is a paradox that refuses easy answers. It is a building that is both a power plant and a playground, a symbol of Copenhagen’s green ambitions and a reminder of its contradictions. It is a work of architecture that asks us to look beyond the surface, to question what we see, and to imagine what a sustainable future might look like — not as a sacrifice, but as a celebration. As long as we continue to generate waste, we will need places like Copenhill to process it. But we also need to ask whether we can afford the luxury of making our infrastructure joyful, or whether that joy is itself a form of denial. The answer, perhaps, lies in the next generation of architects and citizens, who will inherit the mountains we build — and the world we leave behind.