I was recently back on the slopes for my first downhill ski day since Christmas of 2019.
On a recent Saturday morning, I accompanied my dad and two of my younger cousins on a trip to Nakiska. My youngest cousin was visiting Calgary from Saskatchewan and was eager to see what "actual" downhill skiing was like, having only skied at Saskatchewan's tiny hills beforehand. My dad, who skis in the Rocky Mountains virtually every weekend during the winters, was more than willing to show him.
After a last-minute invite, I tagged along, despite having not strapped on a pair of skis in over three years. Since I don't have any equipment of my own, I had to borrow everything from my dad – boots, skis, poles, a helmet, goggles, you name it.
While I hadn't skied in a couple of years, I quickly proved true that it's like riding a bike – you never forget how. I was a bit shaky on my first few runs, but I quickly found my rhythm and before lunch, was confidently zooming down Nakiska's black-diamond runs with relative ease.
I have a pretty complicated relationship with skiing. As I've mentioned in a few previous columns, I come from a family of die-hard skiers who head to the mountains as often as they can during the winters. My dad, now in his 60s, still skis upwards of 25-30 days a season. My uncle retired in Revelstoke, B.C. specifically so he could take advantage of the world-class snow there. And my older brother was a competitive freestyle skier who even competed at the 2007 Canada Winter Games and other high-level competitions throughout his teens.
All this is to say, my family takes skiing quite seriously.
However, I never really felt the same passion for the sport. While I was brought along to Sunshine, Fernie, Lake Louise or wherever we were going that winter weekend from the age of eight onward, my ideal Saturday or Sunday as a kid never included a day on the slopes. I didn't like waking up early and the long drives to the hill. I was also always cold, and until I got contact lenses at the age of 12, wasn't able to see very well. (Glasses and goggles rarely mix).
By the time I was 12 or 13, I declined the offer of being added to my family's season pass, and my winter weekends started to revolve around either playing or watching my preferred sport – soccer. But being brought along to the mountains by my family for four winters in a row had taught me to become a good skier. Even at the age of 10 or 11, I was able to ski down double-black runs.
And even though I've only returned to Alberta's biggest ski hills a handful of times throughout my 20s, I'm happy to report I'm still able to keep up with my family.
