Skiing Through the Years: From Dad’s Slopes to My Son’s Adventures
Some reflections on a lifetime of skiing experiences – from childhood escapades with my dad to capturing my son's ski journey.
For the mid-winter school break, I’m taking my son on a ski trip to Vermont. Boarding for him, skiing for me.
I remember the moment growing up when my dad decided we should be a skiing family. My mom was less than thrilled with his declaration because she was indoorsy. My dad ignored her objections, like he so often did, and embraced skiing by whipping out his credit card for brand-new skis and outfits for all. Credit score and marriage be damned.
As I gathered up all the gear my son and I will need for our trip (why all the gear, skiing?) I was reminded of the many ski trips I took with my dad in Upstate New York deep in the snow belt.
Truthfully, I think of my dad anytime I do something he and I used to do together like painting or home improvement projects. We spent hours and hours together working in his shop when I was a kid. Though I was usually driving nails into a piece of scrap wood, believing I was helping. We ate liverwurst on Triscuits with his 12-inch black and white TV playing World War Two movies in the background.
One of his favorite stories to tell was the time he took me and my sister out to a ski store to buy equipment for my sister. I assume I was too young to be fully outfitted in gear because I was six or seven and growing like a weed, so he pulled me aside and said, “Ok, Robin. I’m gonna bring you with us, but you can’t say one word about wanting me to buy anything. Ok? Not one word.” Legend has it, I agreed, then uncharacteristically, sat quietly in the store while they picked out gear for my sister. Just as they were wrapping up, I said, “You know Dad, I bet those skis up there would fit me.” He laughed and then bought me everything I needed to become a skier.
As a kid, I was fearless on those tiny skis. I had one goal and that was to exit the chair lift, immediately assume a tuck position, and barrel to the bottom as fast as I could. No falls or shrieks from “old people” as I zoomed by would deter me from getting to the bottom and hopping right back onto the chairlift line. I must have been a blur of a bright blue snowsuit and a balloon attached to the pom-pom on my hat.
By middle school, I joined the ski club. Each Wednesday after school, a yellow bus drove us to the mountain, and dropped us off deep in the parking lot with a lesson pass, a lift ticket, and sternly worded instructions to be back at the bus by 8:30 pm. Sometimes when I start to panic about my kids taking the subway two stops from our home in broad daylight, I think about 10-year-old Robin, night skiing without a helmet, taking herself to dinner, and lugging skis, poles, and boots back to the bus on time. I mean my kids can ride the stupid subway two stops.
Today, I see the contrast on the slopes between young Robin and (let’s not call her old) less young Robin. I feel no need to fight my way down a black diamond with icy patches and thoughts of falling and whapping my head on the hard-packed snow. Instead, I’m content carving turns and feeling the meditative state that comes from the sounds my skis make on the snow as I turn. My legs burn halfway down the trail, and I wonder if other folks on the mountain can hear my knees cracking, but I get to watch my son learn the sport, challenge himself, and fight through the frustrations of wanting to be better than he is today.
I’ve become his videographer, quietly skiing behind him and grabbing video to show him his progress.
My heart drops whenever it looks like he might be going a bit too fast. That fear proved to be for a good reason when on our first day out together last year, he caught an edge and broke his wrist.
As we waited in the emergency room I thought back to the time I was skiing with my dad and I believed I could rip a helicopter off a jump without instruction of any kind. After a quarter of a rotation, I flew backwards and my skis went straight into the snow creating a lever-type situation that snapped me back and forth at my groin. My dad looked on with concern and icicles coming off his handlebar mustache. Not unlike my trip with my son, we quietly walked down the hill and that was the end of skiing for a while.
I don’t ski anywhere near as much as I did as a kid, and it’s a sport that may not be feasible much longer with the skyrocketing costs and the global warming implications you see at many mountains. But for as long as I can, I’m going to enjoy the calm and quiet of the mountain. I’m going to lean into the togetherness with my son. And I’m going to hope that someday when my son is doing activities with his kids, especially ones we did together like skiing, he’ll think of me.
Just a quick note. As I’m out enjoying the slopes, Sh!t I Learned From My Crappy Childhood will be off next week. See ya after I get home. Lucky for you, this is a written medium so you will not have to smell the Icy Hot radiating off my back and quads.
Until then!
Robin