To see a larger version of any of the
pictures below, just click on the picture.
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| A view of central Vermont from top
of black diamond Ovation. |
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The
gear. |
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| Skiing at Canaan Valley with two
friends; Lexi is the masked person hiding on the right. |
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Skiing in Park City, Utah, headed
down a wide, blue cruiser to the base lodge lifts. |
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| Getting ready to ski down a black
diamond run at Deer Valley, Utah. |
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Lexi and her husband
Jim on Black Diamond Choker at Snowshoe. |
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| Taking a break on the
slopes at Killington, Vermont. |
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Call me nuts, I love winter, cold weather and snow. And I love skiing. My idea of heaven
is no lift-lines and an endless run down a steep, curving slope on freshly groomed
corduroy.
The thrill of the sport may be lost to those who can’t wait
for spring or those who have never experienced skiing on the spiritual level.
Besides being an incredible amount of fun, skiing effects me in a
deep and profound manner. Like the mysteries of the spiritual realm, the sounds, smells
and sensations of skiing are indescribable and ineffable to the uninitiated. And, like a
mystic, when I ski, I feel at one with the natural world around me, at peace, one with the
flow of all things. Addressing myself to the mountain, everything falls into clear
perspective. I understand the meaning of life when I ski.
If you don’t believe me, try skiing out of control around a
hairpin turn on a 40-degree, icy slope. Maybe you’ll get lucky and see God. I did. He
was standing in the apex of the turn, wearing a green toboggan, red embroidered
suspenders, waving at me as I slid by.
Skiing reminds you to pray. It will hone your senses, sharpen
your concentration, tone up your body, quicken your reflexes. It is a terrific antidote to
stress and depression. Skiing will do everything for you but clean the toilet and pay the
bills.
If I were a billionaire, the first thing I would do, after hiring
a good accountant, is build my own ski resort, probably some place in the Arctic Circle
where there is always snow that sparkles like diamonds.
I have to agree with the title of one of Warren Miller’s ski
films, "Endless Winter." I wish it could be. On my last ski trip, at the end of
each season, I cry, and try to cram in one more run before the day draws to a close. As
the snow melts and the lifts are stilled above the grassy slopes, I hold on to the
memories of the winter to sustain me through the heat of summer.
When I grow old and forgetful, unable to move from my bed, the
times of my life that I will have relished most are those I spent schusshing down the
slopes on a brisk, snowy day.
copyright 1999 by author |
