Skiing is a fine sport. There was a time when I even looked forward to winter in anticipation of hitting the slopes. I was living in Southern California then, and winter meant it might drop down into the 40s on especially cool January nights. I suppose that made it a little easier to brace for the onslaught of Old Man Winter.
My pals and I even put together a few ski vacations in the High Sierra. Eventually, I realized that there was about a month’s overlap between spring skiing and the spawning run out of Crowley Lake. We would hit the slopes in the morning, then hook into pre-spawn rainbows up to 20 inches as they ran up the Owens River, all before the sun dipped behind the mountains. That was great skiing.
I stopped skiing about the time I moved to Montana. Maybe it was that my first instate job was as a sports writer for the daily in Hamilton. I was busy during the winter season, then the busiest for prep sports. Of course in those days the girls played basketball in the fall and volleyball in the winter. I remember that scheduling oddity fondly as it allowed me to report hoops from August through March.
But I stepped out of skiing retirement earlier this month and hit the slopes for the first time in at least a couple decades. Technically, it wasn’t skiing that drew me up to the slopes of Blacktail Mountain on a ridiculously warm winter day (the highs were in the range of those old SoCal nighttime lows). This time I decided to try snowboarding with my kids.
We started the day with a couple hours of lessons. Our instructor Abby was a patient teacher as the girls and I spent most of the morning learning important skills such as how to roll over onto your stomach before trying to pick yourself up after a hard landing on your tailbone. By the time Abby led us out onto the big hill I think I was getting the hang of it; I might have even had a bit of an edge on the girls at that point.
All was good until we stopped for lunch. That’s when I realized I’d failed to slip a beer or two into the cooler. I should have recognized this as the bad omen it was, because when we returned to slopes after our break my legs were gone. I’d barely traveled 100 feet when I realized I was in serious trouble. As the girls disappeared down the hill, I took the first of a half dozen hard falls. I finally made it down to the lift, and after crashing on the dismount, I headed for the bar and a well-deserved adult beverage. The girls stayed on the slopes another hour or two.
Our day snowboarding reminded me of a similar experience a couple years back when we went for a run on the Rails to Trails path. I was in pretty good shape at the time, running quite a bit — up to 10 miles occasionally — and the girls were tuning up for soccer. A jog seemed like a good family activity.
It was, for about a quarter mile. The weather was nice and we were loping along at my usual pace. And I was getting a chance to chat with my teenage daughters about life in an unguarded setting — a real treat for any dad.
But all good things must end. The girls finally let me know it was time to get serious.
First daughter: “Dad, we really need to work out.”
Me: “Sure, that’s why I suggested a run.”
Second daughter: “But we’re done warming up. We need to start running.”
Me: “That’s what we’re doin’ … oh, I see … well, you two go on ahead.”
Both daughters: “Thanks Dad.”
With that they tore off at a pace that would have induced a coronary if I’d tried to keep up. Still, I plan to get the girls back on the mountain soon and show them the old man can still carve it up. We’ll do it just as soon as I can lay off the mega doses of ibuprofen.