I Dream Of Skiing

In August or September I start having ski dreams. Although the visuals may be a bit different, the dreams are essentially all the same. I’m on a mountain at some nondescript ski resort looking down the slope. Sometimes I’m at an incredibly high altitude. Most often I’m alone but sometimes there are others around me. If it’s August, there may be practically no snow on the ground but I’m still there with my skis on. As time goes by and the days become colder, there’s more snow and I am schussing down the hill. Ever since my first ski trip in the early ‘90s, I’ve had these dreams. At first they were constant, almost nightly, but over time the dreams have subsided. I still have them though. They’re like clock work.

On my very first day of downhill skiing ever I took lessons since I didn’t want to break a leg or just mangle myself in general. I connected with it right away. Learning to wedge and stop, traverse the hill and control my speed. It was great fun and I was a star pupil. The instructor even told me that I could advance a couple notches to a higher class. It felt natural. I was beaming and it was the happiest I had felt in a long time. When I met up with my friends Doug, Allan and Frank at the end of that day they wanted to see my progress. They promptly took me to the very top of the mountain. It took a while to get all the way down on a green trail as I self-consciously traversed and wedged. I think we were the last people on the entire hill. The ski patrol and his buddies were literally putt-putting the snowmobile slowly behind us all the way. No pressure at all.

I had cross-country skied as a kid but alpine never came into the picture. Then in my early 30’s, Doug, my boyfriend at the time, said he wanted to take me on his annual New Year’s ski vacation with his longtime friends Allan and Frank. I, of course, said yes and for some reason was very excited to be going even though I had never really thought about learning to downhill ski before. Maybe it was the opportunity for a completely new experience and the chance to be in the woods and mountains, but the idea just clicked for me. We were headed to Vail/Beaver Creek and I was well equipped with borrowed ski wear, new gloves, long undies, and goggles.

I love being in the mountains. Forgive the sappiness, but the majesty and grandeur are very moving for me. The air is crystal clean with a hint of pine and the peaceful silence is remarkable. I feel spiritually expansive instead of keeping it all close and protected as I do in the city. Being high up and seeing so much sky is very comforting. It feels like home.

Up until now, I’ve skied Vail/Beaver Creek, Steamboat, Whistler, Tahoe, Mt. Hood, Mt. Bachelor, Lake Louise, Aspen, Stowe, Hunter, and finally Telluride. I have also attended a fair number of gay ski weeks. But Telluride has become my favorite. Aside from Lake Louise, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve skied. The charming old mining town with its old west main street (Butch Cassidy robbed his first bank there in 1889, by the way) and colorful Victorian houses sits in a cul-de-sac of gorgeous 14,000 foot snowy peaks. Because it’s so remote, lift lines are blissfully short if not non-existent. There have been times when I am the only person on a trail at the end of day. No one above me. No one below. The sun is low in the sky and the jagged edge of pine shadows stretch across the snow. With the exception of a few bird calls and the hush of wind through the trees, it’s thoroughly quiet. Telluride has spoiled me.

Since that first fateful trip more than 15 years ago I fell head over heels—and not in the snow. I go every year. If I don’t get some amount of skiing in every season I feel that life is missing something vital for me. I start planning in October, book by December, and obsess about it ‘til the departure date arrives. I can’t wait for that cold slap of air on a sunny morning while riding the lift. And let’s not forget about the outfits. Skiwear is very important and I have to refrain from buying more than I need. It’s like shoes. I’ve become a decent but solitary skier and more than a bit of a speed freak. I look for the steep cruisers—challenging blues or single black diamonds. While I’m skiing, nothing else exists for me. Troubles and worries slide away. I’m in the moment and focused on the trail ahead. The sensation is amazing. It’s like flying.

I apply to life what I’ve discovered from skiing. There is much starting and stopping as you go. Falling and frustration. Bruised butt and ego. But if you really want to progress you get up and keep going. And each time you fall and each run you make, you learn something new and you’re just a little bit better. Then at the end of the day you are sore and exhausted but satisfied. I will never forget that first pivotal ski trip. I think it changed my life.

Sadly, Telluride will probably not be in the cards this year. Over a year of unemployment has made that decision for me. But, hopefully, I will do a few day trips to the local mountain and get my fix. If not, I will just have to dream of next year.

(Many thanks to Doug, Allan and Frank.)