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The Beginning

I believe I fell in love with skiing due to my father's impatience with the bunny slopes of Glen Eden. At the time, being all of 10 years old, I thought his refusal to spend more than two runs on the mellow T-bar serviced slope was a sign of his utmost confidence in my ability. I'd properly affixed my skis (in half the time it took him to strap on his clunky contraptions), survived the horrible lift, and made my way down with only a minimal amount of butt-sliding and knee torque-ing. My wedge was in fine shape and clearly I was destined for greater terrain.

Across the road we trundled, a boy and his father, out on their first day of skiing together. How could anyone foresee the seed about to be planted? Surely my mother would have put a stop to such madness. But with a family vacation to the Swiss Alps looming, it was deemed necessary to give me a practice day on sticks and snow. Surely the 300 vertical feet of Glen Eden would be adequate?

In line for the chairlift, fear seized me. So fragile, so high - were we really supposed to sit on those? Watching the chairs fly around the bull wheel, only the belief that my father believed in me kept me from turning and running. Or bursting into tears at the very least.

But survive I did, with a helping hand on the loading and unloading portions. For sure, I gripped the chair tight, fully aware that the space below the safety bar was more than adequate to allow me passage. The height was dizzying and electrifying. My eyes were wide.

When I came off the exit ramp with not a piece of me hitting the ground, my confidence reached new heights (never mind the fact that I'd been hauled to safety like a sack of odd shaped potatoes by the strong arm of my Pa). I was standing and I was invincible. It was a foregone conclusion.

And so we drifted off towards a blue run, my father giving me the helpful instruction of "Just stay behind me, nice and easy." My wedge firmly in place, I was in full control as we meandered over to the edge of the world.

Seriously. The slope dropped. The comforting view of white snow fell away and the parking lot down below filled the void. The gentle nudge of gravity tipped me over the edge and was replaced by an aggressive free fall.

I left my father in the dust.

I don't know if he called to me. I don't know if he made any wild arm-waving signs. All I heard was the roaring wind of my own creation. All I felt were the tears streaming out of my eyes. And all I saw was my life transforming.

That and a lady in a brown one-piece. A brown one-piece with yellow and orange racing stripes up the side. When it began to dawn on me that she was not going to move (due to her not knowing I was barreling towards her) and that my control was currently at a minimum, I finally threw it into panic mode. Instincts garnered from years of falling off bikes, falling off skateboards, falling off stairs and just generally falling, kicked into gear and I let myself succumb to survival. Details are sketchy at this point, but when the snow cleared and my eyes opened I saw my father looking down at me.

I have to believe that he knew I was not hurt. I have to believe this because he was laughing. And how could I not join him? And how could I not fall in love?


Fertilizer

So where should one go to cultivate a new found love of planks and angles? When one's eyes are opening to the potential of snow-covered mountains, where can the possibilities best be appreciated?

How about the Swiss Alps? Worked for me. The mountains were nothing new to me - being born to a Swiss family with a father who works for an airline has it's privileges - but I'd never before seen them in the winter. I'd never before seen them without a hint of green appearing on their flanks. I'd never before seen them dressed in white from top to bottom with only rocky ridgelines to offer contrast. And I'd never before seen them while strapped into skis.

This, even my young mind knew, was something.

So imagine my surprise when the ski lesson I'd been signed up for took place in the village. My mother, bless her heart, did not share my father's confidence and so I was placed in the first-timers class alongside my younger sister. As I sidestepped up and down the slope I secretly fumed at the lack of respect being given to my one day of skiing in southern Ontario. This class was beneath me. Fortunately, my mother, bless her heart even more, soon saw the fallacy of her plan and yanked, not only me, but my sister as well, out of that class.

With smiles on our faces and sporty sunglasses to match, we headed up the funicular to join my father and older brother in the real mountains.

Now I could go back and look at all the pictures and home video, I could recount the tales with my fellow family members in order to get the details right, I could research the resort and village in order to get the facts correct…but I won't. Instead, I will rely on hazy memories and overwhelming feelings. Because that is what really counts.

The place was big. Tall peaks in all directions. Endless mountains and valleys receding under an ever-blue sky. Lifts designed by Escher going off in all directions. Tiny dots of people milling about on every slope. I needed eyes that viewed in 360 degrees.

The snow was deep. Jumping off the balcony of our chalet in town yielded chest deep landings (and never mind how short I was). Wandering the backyard was a tiring ordeal more akin to swimming than walking. Our skiing would be limited to groomed pistes, but soft snow was never to be lacking.

The place was home. Simply because my family was there. Father, mother, sister, brother. Two full sets of grandparents, and various aunts, uncles and cousins dropping by. If these were my roots, I was more than happy to grab hold.

I remember rickety chairs that bounced for two towers before settling down. I remember T-bars that went up and down hill. I remember breaking a bamboo pole when falling off a platter lift (I was waving for my dad's camera when it happened).

I remember blue skies, with only one foggy day to break it up. I remember skiing by Braille that day, moving from one sign post to the next, never continuing until all in our party were accounted for.

I remember testing the limits of how fast I was willing to go - always striving to match my brother. I don't remember giving a damn what I looked like doing it. Skis wide, arms wider, smile widest. I remember making big turns on big runs with big joy.

I remember finding jumps. I remember spread eagles. The fact that they weren't much more spread than my regular stance and the fact that my tails often didn't leave the ground would only come to me later. At the time I was flying.

I remember faces burned by the wind and the sun, smiles etched in place, and a family vacation that could solve world problems.

I don't remember if I felt particularly lucky at the time, but I sure do now. A door was opened for me and I ran straight through it.


Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8


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