Whee! Let’s Ski!
To ski has been a near-religion in our family. My mom, we love to say, had me skiing before I was born. To her, skiing wasn’t just a pastime. It was a passion, an unabashed need. Legend has it that she’d sneak off, leaving me in the “care” of the lift operator when I was not much more than a toddler on tiny skis for a “real” run or two. She’d eventually reappear at the bunny slope where I was hanging out and help me up the 1950s-era poma lift with palpable joy (at least on her part). I remember how that joy remained undiminished throughout the coming decades, which included two hip replacements, knee surgeries, an ankle fusion. For a while in the 1980s, she skied on outriggers and one ski, just so she could get out on the mountain.
Mount of the Holy Cross, as seen from Vail.
Janet was a force. Back in the day, we skied from when the lifts opened until they closed, no matter the weather. When the powder was getting skied out, we headed for the woods, years before everyone else figured it out. Cold? Too bad. Eyelashes frozen shut? Too bad. Too much sun? Too bad. On Christmas, skiing came right after stockings and eggs benedict breakfast; the presents waited until the lifts closed.
When cancer took Janet from us in 1988, age 61, my brother and I were left with a ski house in the Colorado mountains. Bless it, it is now the eldest residence on its hillside perch above town, still standing after 59 years of enduring high altitude conditions. Over the years, my life’s demands have meant wrangling too-little time to enjoy the place much beyond quick trips to steward it, largely during the off-seasons. Then, after a (bad) crash in 2015, I didn’t ski again until a short week of half-day skiing in February, 2020, and then not again until recently.
At last, in April 2024, I built in a week for skiing to the routine annual trip for upgrading and repairs. Granted, it was the final week of the season, but better late than never. For five glorious days, I hit the slopes.
In spring conditions, it is prudent for a skier to let the snow soften on the hill until, say, 10:00 or so. At the other end, it’s smart to get off it before the slopes turn to mush —say, 2:00ish. So, sorry, Janet: I bent the family rules, but for good reason. I am older than you ever got to be, and cannot tempt the very real possibility of injury.
Five days! Three with family or friends. Naturally, there were some tentative descents, especially at first. On the first day I was with a step-brother whose grace and fluidity welcomed my muscle memory to join the dance. The same thing happened the next day, with my step-sister—also a lovely and steady skier. That night, a storm blew in and dumped 10-15 inches of new powder snow. Skiing alone in the dusky light the next day, I found a few untrammeled pitches and reignited the fire I have always harbored in my soul for powder skiing. The slope, the sun, the sky, the speed, the turns, the tears in my eyes. Those tears? Mostly from the wind of speeding downhill. Maybe, too, from the remembering.
After a day on my own, my final day of this renaissance was with a fellow I’ve known for 30 years or more, although we had never skied together. It was a sunny, Colorado blue sky day. We were surrounded by the legendary festivity wrought by the final day of the season.
2024 replacement of 59 year old windows was my excuse to go skiing!
We didn’t stay out to the bitter end – only the amateurs and crazies would do such a thing, between the soft conditions and brains also softened by various substances. But we got in 14,000 vertical feet of skiing! This is because this guy skies fast, and doesn’t stop very often. I found myself feeling grateful for that. As the day unfolded I discovered that he was giving me back my true, long-abandoned ski legs. Without knowing it, he led me out of the caution of too-many years away and returned me to the undiluted, brilliant joy of skiing.
What a gift. I can’t wait to come back next year.
