I haven’t done any estate planning lately and my itinerary for the week feels like fate is encouraging me to do so. Every year my friend Bruce posts photos on Facebook of him and several mutual friends skiing fresh powder on their annual pilgrimage to Alta, sparking envy. I haven't joined them there since sometime during the Clinton administration.
There was no cataclysmic event that prompted me to rethink my relationship to risk. I didn’t find myself upside down in a tree well hoping that the ski patrol would discover me. I didn’t come out on the losing end of an altercation with a teenage snowboarder. As a matter of fact, Alta is one of the few ski resorts that bans snowboarders.
It was more that I’d discovered my happy place as a skier the last time I joined their group: I’d take one suicidal run with the guys and then several calm, restorative runs with the only female member of our party. Once she bowed out the only options seemed to be to ski alone or to join my hyperventilating companions as they waited for the lifts to open at what felt like the crack of dawn.
My ideal ski day would have gone something like this: I’d roll out of bed around nine, maybe read a book, take a shower and enjoy a leisurely breakfast. The slopes would beckon, of course, but probably not before 10:30 a.m. That’s more than enough time to get in several energetic runs without suffering any guilt that you’re breaking for lunch too soon.
I did make one contribution to our merry band’s culture before I ceased skiing out west. I suggested that rather than suffering the mountain’s lunchtime crowds and overcooked, overpriced burgers we return to our lodge for a civilized meal. The food was significantly better, the cost not usurious, and most importantly the pause gave me time to recuperate.
If it had been up to me back then I’d have obeyed my body’s command, called it a day and retired for a nap. Skiing immediately after lunch on a full stomach (not to be confused with aprės-ski, which I consider an unalienable right) makes me feel weak and vulnerable the way I assume a lobster must when it sheds its shell and, until it grows a new one, is exposed to every predator in the ocean. Except in my case it’s not sharks or seals in search of a free meal that signal peril but moguls and my buddies who, and I mean no criticism, aren’t nearly as in touch with their bodies as I am.
But one of the reasons that I was persuaded to return this year is that since the last time I visited Alta our group has expanded to include another woman who I know and like but have never skied with. For all I know she’s as crazy as the guys but — and please don’t interpret this as sexist — in my experience women tend to be more rational, sensible, less showboaty and all-around better people than men. So I’m hoping that whatever her skill level she’ll condescend to ski a few runs with me.
For the record I’m not indulging my thrill-seeking colleagues, as I did on my last visit, by disembarking from the lift at what I assumed was the top of the mountain only to climb further, skis slung over my back, through the thin 11,000’ air in search of fresh powder.
Much has changed since the last time I traversed exposed rock faces with this band of brothers. Has it really been three decades? I’m not referring to life’s successes and failures, the fact that my toddlers have grown and now have children of their own. I’m not even thinking of our tumultuous political landscape. I’m referring exclusively to my body.
I used to give myself the benefit of the doubt, calling myself an expert skier when I was actually an intermediate. Time has whittled away my ego so that I now consider myself an intermediate; which means that I’m probably back to advanced beginner status.
Speaking of being in touch with your body, mine has informed me on several occasions recently, typically whenever I try to stand up and walk, that deep abiding hot tub comfort is the better part of valor. In other words, my chronic heel pain, occasional back spasms and various other maladies counsels me that I’ll be making a grave mistake by tackling the Devil’s Castle or some other black diamond run. I have headed the gods in one modest way — by purchasing a refundable plane ticket in case I chicken out at the last minute.
But I doubt I will. There’s something restorative about the company of men, especially when they include women. I’m also embracing the irrational hope that if I’m facing the mountain’s existential threats my quotidian aches and pains will miraculously disappear. Finally, some kind friends invited us to Florida the following week. I’m already looking forward to healing by their pool.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
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