I wouldn't be a skier if not for my pops. It was pretty unlikely for me to become a skier in the first place, growing up in Ohio. But my dad, who grew up in LA taking weekend trips to Big Bear with his sisters, and who taught my mom to ski in Lake Tahoe when they were both studying at Berkeley, brought his love for alpine culture to the flat and snowless reaches of southwest Ohio. He put me and my sister into ski boots when we could barely walk, and thus was born an unorthodox winter family ritual.
In addition to the local bump which we would frequent, our family always took several ski trips a year. They were never elaborate, but always memorable. I remember him driving the rented mini-van up to Boyne Mt. Michigan in an ice storm that left the highways in a sheet of glare ice and he had to pry his fingers from the steering wheel when we got there. I remember the transmission falling out of our old Chevy as we neared Seven springs, PA. My mom, my sister and I rode the last mile freezing in the back of a pickup truck driven by a couple drunken Good Samaritan cowboys while my dad arranged a tow for the car. I remember driving through the night the next year in our new Subaru to get to Snowshoe, West Virginia in a whiteout blizzard.
In high school they would send me to race camps in Oregon, even though neither our economic stratum nor my skill level justified such an extravagance. When my sister went to college in New England, we would meet her in Vermont to ski. When I moved to Colorado, my parents, sometimes with my sister in tow, would come out once or twice a year, and we would ski. Skiing was just a cornerstone of our family, and it's no wonder I ended up in Colorado. I'll always treasure that.
Even though he had slowed down in recent years and hadn't skied in a couple years, he would still come to the resorts with my family and snowshoe or just sit with a book and a cup of good coffee and soak in the view. He said he just liked the atmosphere.
Pop lost a brief battle with a very aggressive and fast-moving blood cancer yesterday. I am really going to miss him.
Thanks, dad, for this gift of a love of skiing. Every time I click in, you will be with me.
In addition to the local bump which we would frequent, our family always took several ski trips a year. They were never elaborate, but always memorable. I remember him driving the rented mini-van up to Boyne Mt. Michigan in an ice storm that left the highways in a sheet of glare ice and he had to pry his fingers from the steering wheel when we got there. I remember the transmission falling out of our old Chevy as we neared Seven springs, PA. My mom, my sister and I rode the last mile freezing in the back of a pickup truck driven by a couple drunken Good Samaritan cowboys while my dad arranged a tow for the car. I remember driving through the night the next year in our new Subaru to get to Snowshoe, West Virginia in a whiteout blizzard.
In high school they would send me to race camps in Oregon, even though neither our economic stratum nor my skill level justified such an extravagance. When my sister went to college in New England, we would meet her in Vermont to ski. When I moved to Colorado, my parents, sometimes with my sister in tow, would come out once or twice a year, and we would ski. Skiing was just a cornerstone of our family, and it's no wonder I ended up in Colorado. I'll always treasure that.
Even though he had slowed down in recent years and hadn't skied in a couple years, he would still come to the resorts with my family and snowshoe or just sit with a book and a cup of good coffee and soak in the view. He said he just liked the atmosphere.
Pop lost a brief battle with a very aggressive and fast-moving blood cancer yesterday. I am really going to miss him.
Thanks, dad, for this gift of a love of skiing. Every time I click in, you will be with me.
