Ready, Set, Ski!

My family was outdoorsy in our own way, leisurely skating on the lake or sledding in the field out back — that kind of thing. Still, I had nothing to compare to my in-laws’ precise routine for getting to the mountains.

Things like breakfast, personal hygiene, and vehicular safety were not allowed to distract from the ultimate goal of, if not getting the first chair in the morning and the last chair at the end of the day, then something approximating that.

Once you were sitting on the lift, gliding noiselessly past snow-covered treetops, with pristine new flakes floating all around and the promise of finding corduroy, the difficult steps to get there would be all but forgotten. On reflection, though…

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Well before dawn on Sunday, there was a call coming up the stairs, growing closer and louder, “Who’s a skier?” Then a not too gentle knock on the door — BAM BAM BAM. And another call, retreating down the stairs, “The car is leaving in 15 minutes…”

That gets us moving all right! And we throw on cotton long underwear, Levi button down jeans, and heavy wool sweaters, then join the growing group of family members milling around in the kitchen, with each person scrambling for the same box of Life cereal and the same bottle of generic two percent milk.

With no time to worry about our teeth or our hair, the skis and poles are strapped on top of both the Volare station wagon, and the Horizon hatchback, and I find myself wedged between other riders in one of the backseats. The Volare never did like its lane, but swerved unpredictably from side to side all the way through Denver and up into the mountains.

The swerving might have been sick-making if anyone had had a full stomach. As it was, the motion could be lulling and often everyone riding in the back fell asleep, with soft woolen toques and bulky winter coats making us feel like a bin of stuffed animals. 

If I was riding in the Horizon, though, there was less sleeping and more drama because the carburetor wouldn’t have enough oxygen to run, right around the time we reached Eisenhower Tunnel — actually one and a half mile twin tunnels — drilled beneath the continental divide at more than eleven thousand feet above sea level. 

Because the Horizon was going to stall, the Volare followed us with their flashing emergency lights anytime we coasted to a stop. After an interval, during which we marveled at bighorn sheep perched on rocky outcroppings high above us, the riders in the back of Volare would become grumpy when awakened by a lack of motion.

Then the Horizon would start again on its own and the trip could continue.

By the time we’d reach Loveland, or Copper, or A-Basin, the sun was rising, and ski patrollers were gathered around lifts preparing for the first ride up and a safety check. This also meant they would get “First Tracks” while regular day-skiers like our group look on in envy.

Sometimes, if we were running late, we’d change into our ski boots in the parking lot and then gallop in a galumphing gait to join the long lines at the ticket windows.

Other days, when we have arrived “on time” — meaning the lifts wouldn’t start for a half hour or more — we’d carry all of the boots and gear to the lodge and change inside and maybe have a hot cocoa and muffin if someone had brought money.

After a lunch break of cold cut sandwiches, orange wedges, and water or coffee from shared thermoses, it was back out to the slopes.

I was not a strong skier at that time and often did not follow the other “kids” — my husband and his brothers — on their quest for the steep and gnarly. Instead, I enjoyed the day on greens and blues with his parents and hearing how, in the 1940s, they would take an overnight train with friends that left from downtown Manhattan destined for ski resorts in Vermont and New Hampshire.

They were better skiers than I was, but they were middle-aged (in their early 50s) and I could easily keep up with them. (Or maybe they were waiting for me?) In any case, we liked the same terrain and had fun exploring those gentler slopes together.

I was not a “must take the last chair” kind of skier and often would wait down below at the base lodge holding a table for the others to gather around. Then, we would all lug skis and poles and boots back out to the car for the hour’s drive home. Or an hour and a half, depending on which area we had chosen that day.

Some of the best meals I ever had were after those ski trips. Whether it was chili or pizza or hot dogs, the food was always delicious.

And I felt inexplicably nostalgic as we went our separate ways, some of us sitting around reading or playing Pong on the TV in damp ski clothes waiting for a turn in the shower while others were already changing into pajamas and heading to bed.

Luckily, the next day would begin the work week with plenty of time to recover ahead of my new family’s next adventure.

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Looking for more wintry fun? Tune into these tales and written memories from all over the world.

• Peppermint Mocha Coffee – My Favorite Things
• Taking Down the Tree – Post-Christmas Poetry
• Divergent Memory of a Burning Heap – Micro Essay
• I Hate Nature – Personal Humor Essay
• The Llama You’ll Never Know – Humorous Travel Essay
• Incredible – Creative Nonfiction About Cats
• The Outcasts – a Short Story
• Before They’re Gone – a Will & May Story