The Upside of Downhill in Aspen

Photo: Dave Logan

When I daydream about skiing, two moments spring to mind, both associated with winter mornings in the mountains: first, the decisive snap of the boots into the ski bindings; next, the thrust that propels you through rushing wind and pine-scented air into the exhilarating first run. These are rituals that seem like second nature, for I have skied since I was seven. The sport has been such an integral, joyous part of my life — as child, student, novelist, mother, wife — that it is impossible to imagine winter without it. Yet only this year I realized, with some alarm, that increasingly fewer of my women friends — women with college-age children — still ski: either injuries prevent them or they've succumbed to the lure of balmy places where one actually relaxes. I must admit that, to me, this is something of a foreign concept. I adore the snow-peaked mountains, the bracing cold, the challenge and, yes, even the adventure-heightening danger of skiing. I love the rhythm of the day, which always begins with a hearty breakfast and ends with that exquisite moment when, after unbuckling your boots, you are released from the soreness that until then has miraculously gone unnoticed.

I learned to ski at Stowe and Sugarbush, in Vermont. My first year was not auspicious: it was bitter cold, I fell off the T-bar, the Austrian instructors were hardly "nurturing," and my parents had bought me a puffy snowsuit that, though functional, I hated. (I was already attuned to style on the slopes and, according to family lore, began an unrelenting campaign for an Austrian wool jacket and stretch pants like those I'd seen on other girls.) My love of skiing ignited the following year, when all the elements came together — the sense of independence, the thrill of speed, the satisfaction of learning to make strong, controlled turns. (I had also succeeded in getting rid of the snowsuit.) Off the slopes, I relished the coziness of family lunches and dinners.

In those days the method, as taught by Swiss and Austrian instructors, was very strict; the goal was to keep the skis parallel and close together. (The favored stance today is inspired by racers; now I am sometimes told to keep my skis farther apart.) We were drilled with exercises, one of which had us skiing down the hill while gripping a mitten between our knees; in the frigid air, losing that mitten was not an appealing prospect. Midmorning, inside the warm lodge, we were rewarded with a snack. I still remember my favorite cake: white with thick frosting and rainbow sprinkles. To this day I cannot see such a cake without thinking of mornings at Sugarbush. (Food — lunch, particularly — looms large when you ski. I recall the tagliolini gratinati with prosciutto and peas at Cortina, the cheeseburgers at Mammoth Mountain, a tuna melt I wolfed down at Bonnie's in Aspen.)