I started skiing in my late twenties. Some of my friends, having recently returned from military service decided to ski and I, knowing nothing about it except seeing some in newsreels, decided it might be fun. At the beginning, it wasn’t. It was work. Getting ready was aggravating. Putting on the boots was always annoying. Carrying the skis and poles was a chore. And in the era preceding release ski bindings there was always the threat of injury. In the early years of one’s skiing, it’s a continuous learning curve. It was no real fun, just trying something new, to get better. The continuous challenge to always get better to be able to manage a more difficult trail. First the snowplow, then the stem turn, then the stem christie and then finally keeping the skis parallel. Success! Then there are moguls, the big bumps, and more speed
But it becomes worth it when you reach a level of mastery. Sailing down a hill from the top of a mountain, carving turns, feeling the exhilaration of the wind on your face and the view, oh the view. But those too rare times are what a skier dreams of. The reality is that many days are too cold, the trails are icy, the falling snow affects visibility. The bumps, ruts and surface of the trails are hard to see and are no fun trying to navigate. In spring the days can be too warm the snow slushy and you look forward to the apres-ski, skiwasser and hot chestnuts. But it really doesn’t matter. It’s all joy and challenge.
One day in Switzerland, I remember skiing down with my 9 year old son in a fog so thick we couldn’t figure out which way was down. I had no idea what to do until a group of expert skiers, singing in German, skied past us and we managed to follow them down out of the clouds. It was a sad day when we gave up our apartment in the Engadine and came back to the US.
And believe it or not, at age 90, I went back on skis after a few years away and it was still a joy.
