When I was 5 my dad taught me to ski on a tiny slope in northern New Jersey. I remember the first time I grabbed a rope tow. I grasped it tightly with mittened hands and catapulted forward above the ground. The snow was soft and it didn’t hurt in spite of doing a somersault. Dad picked me up and dusted snow off, then I tried again ‘til I grasped it just right.
We skied High Point in the Catskill Mountains ‘til Dad bought two acres in Killington under 6-feet of snow from Oren Bates in 1958. Killington Ski Area had just begun. We built our ski lodge on weekends and vacations and drove up from Montclair, New Jersey. Once we had a basement to stay in, Dad and I skied Pico Peak and Okemo where the infamous Poma lift sent me sky high. I landed in a snow drift on my derrière like many of its riders unexpectedly did.
Soon we began to ski Killington Mountain. I practiced the snowplow on the bunny slopes, then little by little skied parallel. The Cat Walk required a brand new technique. Dad taught me to side-step and slide down safely.
I went on to schuss and gained confidence in speed. Eventually I realized my favorite thing was skiing over moguls, a series of mounds, that covered the slopes that I loved most with bumps. I learned to lean forward with bended knees, hips swerving and swiveling, while maneuvering the curves. Once over the top, I flew through the air then landed, changed direction, and began once again. When I mastered the Zen Mogul Flow, I overcame fear and no longer fell while conquering trails with moguls galore. The movements resembled an exhilarating dance.
I skied out West in powdery snow, a different experience from ice in the East. One time at Snowbird I was mistaken. The trail had ended and turned to the side. I had no idea and skied straight ahead, jumping gracefully over a ridge. Lucky for me, the powder was deep. Nothing was broken. I had no injuries.
While studying in Europe I lugged my skis from Monaco to Paris, and then through the Alps. While summer skiing on a glacier in Austria, a sunny day turned to a raging storm. I could barely see my hand in front of my face and climbed to a cave to ascend to the lodge. While catching my breath at its entrance (Kitzstein Mountain is 3,200 meters high), a bolt of lightning struck the ground. I felt the shock and explosion. I was shaken and pale but still okay. My ski boots were grounded and saved my life.
Another near miss was due to my poor German language skills. I didn’t understand “Achtung Spalten.” When I saw the signs, I continued on, not realizing I was crossing crevasses skiers could fall into and never be found.
The other danger I was spared from (like a cat with nine lives), by the grace of God, was skiing in areas where avalanches were common. I didn’t know. I hadn’t a clue. But I didn’t yodel and never hollered, so the snow decided to stay where it was.
I wish I could still ski but several injuries have made me stop bicycling and skiing. But if I close my eyes and visualize, I can recreate the way I felt, swaying and zig zagging up over moguls on my favorite Killington slope. If you ski and head up the lift, please take a run down the Mountain for me.
Marguerite Jill Dye is an artist and writer who divides her time between Vermont and Florida.
