The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation

Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.

I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.

There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.

I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.

When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.

If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.

Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.

For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.