I first started wiggling the sticks many decades ago. The skis were monstrously long, heavy Northland wood skis. Leather and then, wonder of wonders, cable bindings. Feet tended to freeze in ponderous leather lace-up boots. Ski poles were made of bamboo with floppy rings of metal held by tethers of leather for baskets. Ski gloves were huge, with leather palms, to minimize damage from the slide of the rope tows. But then, as now, there was a special magic delight in the silence of the mountain, the hiss of falling snow, winter tree trunks, and the magnetic gravitational pull through gentle resistance of layered snowflakes parting mysteriously from my knees and lower legs. I started skiing at the age of two and grew up a powder hound.
Skiing was never a social event to me. It was like hunting or fishing, or sitting in the saddle. It was meant to be enjoyed alone or perhaps with one or two others, close friends or family. I have skied the East in the numbing cold of Killington, amidst the birch of Bromley, and the private rarified atmosphere of Attitash. I have ducked under the whirling blades of helicopters stirring ground squalls of snow. There might be a couple of places in the western United States where I have not made tracks, but they are precious few.
I can’t claim to have ever been an extreme skier, but I suppose I bordered on the side of daredevil. Two knee surgeries, two back surgeries, and a host of other injuries from shoulders to ankles I still prefer the steep, the deep and the trees. But now the day’s delight is mixed with a double back brace, a few Advil before and after, and a slight underlying caution which up until a few years ago brought skeptic laughter. But all things evolve.
Over time I have come to know where and under what conditions I won’t ski, where I can spend a fun day, and where I truly love to point the tips downhill: Steamboat, Telluride, Snowmass and Vail (on non-weekend, non-holidays only), and Fernie Alpine Resort, to name a few. But above all my skiing heart and soul is embedded in the rocky crags, lonely bowls and stunningly deep powder of the King of the North American Mountains, Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
As I write this there is snow forecast above 8,000 ft. in the mountains. There is a month or two of great fishing still left to go. Elk bugles drift down the canyons and hunting season is just about upon us. Fall is the season I love best. But, I think I’m going to lift my fingers from the keyboard and go check my ski duffle, and maybe check the edges of those fat K-2’s.