Skiing and Me

by Jules Older

Growing up in 1950’s Baltimore, outside of movies, I’d never seen a ski.

When I left for college, in cold and mysterious Vermont, my mother’s friend gave me a pair from her college days. They were ancient even by 1958 standards: taller than an NBA center, primitive beartrap bindings and lacking that newfangled invention, steel edges.

But they were mine. And I was heading for the snow.

I had no idea what to do with my new/old skis. So my freshman roommate trudged with me to the top of Hospital Hill, a steep slope ending at the curb of a busy Burlington street. He helped me strap into those outmoded bindings, held my arm as I steadied myself at the top of the hill, and pushed.

Fearing a fall onto the icy snow, I skied.

Been doing it ever since. Sliding on snow has been not only a major theme of my life but the way I've earned much of my income. More than that, snow-covered mountains have given me enormous pleasure, satisfaction and spiritual uplift. Skiing has been a huge and hugely wonderful part of my adult life. Hello, mountains. Farewell, Baltimore.

I came to the University of Vermont in part because they let this indifferent high-schooler in, and in part because of the call of the snow. Was I man enough to survive winter in the Frozen North?

The two best things I did in my freshman year were to write for the Vermont Cynic, the college newspaper, and to join the Outing Club. Eventually, I became editor-in-chief of the Cynic, as I later became editor-in-chief of Ski Press magazine. As for the Outing Club, during my first winter break, I joined their trip to the Laurentian Mountains in Quebec. We stayed in the McGill Outing Club cabin. Oh, my. Gaspable cold. Shoulder-deep snowbanks. People speaking French. Young women in tight sweaters and tighter pants. Quelle banquet!

And skiing was dessert. Sliding down a mountain — a mountain, not Hospital Hill — on narrow boards. Slowly improving, learning something new on each run. That rosy-cheeked, tired-muscle feeling at day’s end. My cup runneth over.

By senior year, my friends and I were organizing our schedules to keep Wednesday afternoons free. Wednesday afternoons were dollar days at Smugglers’ Notch Skiways.

What kind of skier was I? If you look up “reverse snob” in the dictionary, you'll find my picture. Only ski in jeans. Never order Chardonnay. Buy second-hand skis, hand-me-down boots. And on no account, ever be seen taking a lesson.

If joining the Outing Club was smart, not taking lessons defined dumb. Real men didn’t need lessons, and hadn't I come to Vermont to become a Real Man? That mindset retarded my skiing by years, for years. Eventually, I woke up, and, as a result, I'm a better skier at 68 than I was at 28 or 38.

Little did I know when I shot straight down Hospital Hill that I was entering a sport that would last a lifetime. Not baseball, not football, it’s skiing that I still do.

And I haven't done it alone. When I fell in love with Effin, one of the first things I did was to take her to the top of Vermont’s Jay Peak… and help her negotiate the long, cold ski down. Since then, we've skied together from Newfoundland to New Zealand, Scotland to the Sierra. We taught our daughters, Amber and Willow, to ski, and I hope to have our grandsons on snow next winter. Skiing isn't just a lifetime sport; it’s a family sport as well.

I'm writing this from the middle seat of a van, riding the Icefields Parkway in Alberta, Canada. Outside, mighty peaks loom; I've been skiing them for the past four days. Inside, my companions range in age from 42 to 79; like me, they're all ski writers, and like me, they've been skiing hard and fast in these majestic mountains. Our bodies are strong. Our talk is of skiing. And our feeling of rosy-cheeked, tired-muscle pleasure is intensely satisfying.

As has been my lifetime on snow.

Jules Older has been a clinical psychologist, medical educator, disc jockey, TV villain, writer and editor. His latest adult book is Backroad and Offroad Biking. His latest for kids is PIG.

Comments

[Tim Rogers]

Nice piece Jules. It is so true. I started out on wooden skis with leather straps on top of Garrison Hill in Dover NH sometime in the early 1950s. It was over the edge and downhill we go. My best friend hit the warm-up shack and knocked it off its cement block corner supports. Been skiing ever since.

[jules older]

I imagine you too had no idea it would be — literally — the sport of a lifetime. Sill bowling? No, me either.

jules

[melanie coates]

Jules, i recall my first hill at 6 years old as my Dad pushed me down Grouse Mountain in BC. Now my boy needs some ski legs and it seems like so much work. I hear they have invented a training harness? Could also just picture you typing away this note on your alphasmart 2000. Cheers to you and Effin....melanie

[jules older]

Melanie, Melanie... She's North America from coast to coast. We've met in New Brunswick and in California. Traveled together, biked together, broke lobster together, and never once did I ask her, "Do you ski?"

Glad to know that you do/did, and that little Vincenzo will be following in your tracks. It is such a great family sport that not only keeps generations connected but gives geezers like moi a reason to stay fit, year round.

Lovely to hear from you. Hi from Effin.

PS Yes, Melanie, there is a training harness.

jules

[Bud Foulke]

Jules,

So I finally got around to commenting on your article, a day before Easter when most of the land is bare but surrounding Eastern mountains are still having weekend bashes. It's a story that strikes high notes and moves harmoniously from one simple chord to another. Hard to imagine that you were that good in the first draft, crammed into the seat next to me on the van with unforgettable peaks going by on both sides of Icefields Parkway. But we should cram you in again to see what happens.

Like you and Tim, my entrance into skiing was anything but classy. First came the childhood play in Minnesota, with galoshes and stips of old inner tubes to control their heels. Then my friends and I went to the local big hill over the Minnehaha Creek valley that we called "60." Push off and soon find that turning was impossible, so go straight down. Then it felt that the name was right when we collapsed in snowbanks at the bottom.

The pattern continued in college and graduate school. No good equipment, no lessons, no place to sleep other than ski dorms if we were lucky. My initiation into real skiing came on a winter weekend during my freshman year, when I was taken to the top of Kiddie Car Hill, aka Cranmore Mountain in New Hampshire, by my friends. They pointed to a trail and disappeared. The rest of the day was a story of stuggle, hope, exasperation, bruised shoulders and hips, and a few glimpses of fun.

I have been pursuing that fun ever since. Patty and I were married at the end of December in Minnesota and honeymooned at Mont Tremblant, where we have returned many times for both sentimental and good skiing reasons. And we've been exploring mountains and writing about recreational skiing for two decades now.

I have no intention of quitting this lifetime sport (my other is sailing) as long as the snow flies where I live and the legs work. Jules, you pushed my age a bit in the article, but I hope to make it true in two weeks.

Bud

[jules older]

Bud talks about a day of "struggle, hope, exasperation, bruised shoulders and hips" in his youth. He also had a worse one a lot more recently. I'll try to post that tale next...

jules