Why I Ski

In the most tactical terms, I ski because as a kid, my parents made me. It was like school: I went because I had no choice.

That was a long time ago, and I still ski. I go, in part, because of Franny Mogulbuster. She was a ski instructor at Smuggler's Notch. When I broke my leg at a lump called Big Birch at age 6, and my parents forced me back onto skis the next season, Franny greeted my tantrum of fear with a simple, "I'll take care of it."

And there was Chip, a screen door salesman staying at our hotel during that same vacation. He volunteered to ski with me so my parents could have a break. Back then, it would have been weirder to refuse his offer than it would be to accept it today. For hours, he skied backwards with me between his legs. His only reward was seeing a scared little kid learn to have some fun again.

All these years later, I ski for them. I ski for the joy of being publicly, unapologetically good at something. And because I know that no matter how good I get, I can always find somebody better and there's always more to learn. I also ski because it's fun to teach.

I ski for that run through the bowls of Sun Valley when the stranger said to me, "You powder hounds piss me off." It was envy, not anger. I ski for the first time I tried bumps on telemark skis – laughing for 45 minutes as I tumbled and stumbled down 200 yards of liftline.

I ski for the snap of the early morning air as I load the car for a day trip, and to raise a finger to winter's worst.

I ski for Killington's Outer Limits in spring, Jay Peak's Corona after a big storm, and for the humbling perfection of Paradise at Mad River Glen. For the mind-bending experience of seeing thunder and lightning during a snow storm on my annual fellas' trip to Solitude.

I ski because chairlifts are a great place to catch up with buddies. And for the unlimited potential of the singles line – I've met people who retired young and rich, and octogenarians who still love to work. I met a guy who vacuum-packs vegetables all summer and skis all winter on his earnings. I rode with two girls whose Dad makes up a new story for them them on every lift ride. His improvised tale about a princess was so good I didn't want to reach the summit.

I ski because I love running into old friends in the lodge, hearing the whoops of strangers shushing through some hidden glades, and finding a trail on even the most crowded of weekends where I can feel perfectly alone.

I ski for the life lessons: You're not learning if you're not falling. Take care of your own equipment. Keep your hands where you can see them. No friends on a powder day. Go big or go home. And, of course, you never get hurt in the air.

I ski because I've nailed my hip on a tree, cut my chin, jammed my thumb, nearly broken my arm, and gotten lucky in more nasty falls than I can count. The injuries aren't fun. They're just better than the agonizing safety of my cubicle.

I ski because Chris Waddell, Bode Miller, and Lindsey Vonn inspire me. Because Johnny Moseley knew the Dinner Roll would cost him the gold and he did it anyway. Because The Hurricane is awesome, and Hermann Maier walked away from the most incredible crash I've ever seen and won his next race.

Because I've seen Suzy Chapstick and Arnold Schwarzenegger wipe out. They smiled and waved when people yelled from the chairlift. We're all in it together.

I ski because my parents met in a share house. Over 45 years later they still talk about it.

I ski to rocket down a wide-open trail and to feel the driving rhythm of a perfect mogul run. Because when the snow is right, the crowds are thin, and the turns just flow, I know what it must be like for a bird to ride the wind.

I ski because strangers say, "Hello," "Are you OK?" and, "Here's your ski, man." They hoot, clap, and holler at my yard sales, and expect the same in return.

I ski because when I dropped my ski at the top of Tuckerman's Ravine and it took off without me, all Ted could do was laugh as it went by. Because when I stood on soft snow at the top of Heavenly, I was amazed to see the Nevada desert below. When I was in Europe studying abroad, Jason and I took an impromptu trip to Cervinia and I experienced real powder for the first time. I was so unprepared I wore socks for gloves and shorts on my head.

I ski because two years ago my 74 year old Dad came to Sugarbush with me. He hadn't skied in 15 years and only did 6 runs, but I'll never forget it. When we had an apres-ski beer – "skiing mahogany ridge," he calls it -- I felt like his son and his friend.

On the flip side, I know a 66 year old who can ski me into the dirt any day of the week. The sport is as ageless as you want it to be.

I ski for the anticipation of the first turns of the year, and for the giddy farewell vibe when the days are long, the temperatures hit 50, and everybody knows the last run of the season is coming soon.

For parking lot barbecues, slushy bumps, hip deep powder, the still of the trees, and the mechanical chugging of the lift wheels.

For endless variety and timeless rituals.

I ski for the people I've met, the friendships it strengthens, the places it takes me. For the mountain of memories and the stories yet to happen.

Franny and Chip, whoever you were and wherever you are, thank you.