I’ve been thinking about skiing recently.
That’s a bit odd, I suppose, given where I now live here in the Desert Southwest, but also probably a bit of a hazard from writing a novel or two set back in Maine. It didn’t help that I saw snow in the mountains surrounding where I live, either, though to be honest, I’m quite happy seeing the snow and not having to deal with the rest of what comes with it. I have terrible memories of digging out my driveway to slog my way to work, then digging out my car in the parking lot after a full day of snowfall only to return to a driveway that needed to be cleared once again. Unlike the two-a-days from swimming, brandishing a shovel more than a single time in twenty-four hours seemed like a way for the universe to prove to us who, exactly, was in charge. (And it wasn’t us.)
I came to skiing late, actually. With everything else I was up to as a kid, trekking to the local slopes for the weekend wasn’t in the cards, nor was it an inexpensive way for our family to vacation. A year into my professional life, though, my father signed the two of us up for night classes at Shawnee Peak, a mountain within easy driving distance of where we lived at the time — and, more importantly, one of the few ski resorts that had lights. Since we commuted together at that point, he’d pick me up at the office and we’d be off, spending a few hours of quality time together while simultaneously learning how to control my fight against gravity.
Having grown up skiing in the Alps, Dad really didn’t need the lessons like I did, but all the same he went through them with me. We had one of the best instructors I’ve ever encountered, and by the end of the season, I’d progressed far enough to try some of the more difficult trails the mountain offered. Looking back on it now, I can’t tell you how precious my memories of that time are; we did it again the following year, but with shifting schedules, our time together on the slopes ended far too soon. I am happy we did get time to experience the “full family” outing a few times in the years after, for there’s truly nothing quite like skiing with your my siblings — even if they did favor snowboarding over skiing. In retrospect, I wish I’d done far more with them before heading west, but I cherish memories of what we did as well.