A Love Letter to Skiing
FIELD NOTES
Reflections From Life In Motion
A pair of skis may be my longest, most faithful companion. I have no memory of life before skiing, or of the first time skis were strapped to my feet at two-and-a-half years old, more than sixty years ago.
That origin story isn’t unusual. Skiing is one of those passions parents are eager to pass down to their kids. My daughter was on skis at four, and my son before he turned two. They both learned while secured to a harness I held tightly, as they wriggled and giggled their way down the bunny slope behind our small ski camp in western New York. My thighs burned as I stayed in a constant snowplow, or “pizza,” as we shouted to the little ones so they could picture what their skis were supposed to look like to keep their speed in check. Before long, they graduated to “French fries,” and soon were turning down the slopes as though they’d been born on skis.
My father’s love for skiing began long before he ever had access to it. Somewhere along the way, he became captivated by the idea itself. I wish I could ask him now exactly where that spark came from, but I often imagine it began on the big screen. Like so many American ideas that fascinated him, skiing may have first appeared through films he’d sneak off to watch at the American consulate in Budapest. American movies shown there sparked visions of a life he could only dream about. Among them may have been grainy films by Warren Miller, the legendary filmmaker who helped define ski culture for generations—films that were illegal, even illicit, under Communist rule at the time. In those flickering images of skiers carving freedom into snowy mountainsides, I imagine something lodged deep and never quite let go.
Whatever ignited that interest, skiing became part of his identity and was woven into the foundation of our social lives and the fabric of our family.
He and my mother immigrated to the United States from Hungary in the late 1950s, carrying little more than hope and determination. Once he had a few dollars to spare, my dad borrowed gear, found hills, and made his way to the slopes. Skiing wasn’t exclusive in those years. To make it even more affordable, dad became a ski instructor, which often meant discounted skiing for the entire family. He worked as a transmission mechanic, and my mother was a purchasing agent at a knitting mill, in Cleveland. Still, skiing was something an ordinary family like ours could realistically make part of their winters. In today’s dollars, what once covered an entire season might now barely cover a single week.
Growing up in northeastern Ohio, skiing gave shape to winter. While others braced themselves for months of cold and gray, our house buzzed with preparation. Snow tires went on the cars. Skis were waxed and sharpened. We wore ski boots around the house, breaking them in early and half-laughing at the discomfort. The first snowflakes weren’t something to dread; they were a signal that the season had arrived.
There is a kind of magic to the entire experience of skiing that’s hard to explain. The hush of trees glistening with snow as the chairlift ascends. The sound of edges slicing cleanly through corduroy. Sun warming your face on a bluebird day. The quiet thrill of fresh tracks after an overnight snowfall. These moments are what keep us returning to the slopes, no matter the wind or cold, despite aching limbs or sore muscles.
My father skied until he was 85. Giving it up was one of the harder decisions he had to make. When a fall meant he could barely get up, even with help, he reluctantly skied his last run. He set a high bar, one that still tugs at me, a reminder that movement, joy, and adventure don’t have an expiration date.
Skiing has always been more than a sport. It is fun, exercise, nature, travel, and a community like no other. It connects strangers on chairlifts and friends over shared runs. It brings families together across generations and creates lifelong social circles. Skiers of all ages and abilities find their place on the mountain, supported by varied terrain and adaptive programs that make the sport accessible to many who might otherwise be excluded.
And then there is après ski. Few scenes capture joy quite like skiers, exhilarated and exhausted, gathered in ski helmets, dancing to the music in ski boots, laughter spilling over, a drink in hand. It’s a celebration quite unlike any other.
This is my love letter to skiing. Not just for the turns or the terrain, or the friendships it has brought into my life, but for the way it has shaped my seasons, my family, and the rhythm of it all. If you’re looking for winter joy and haven’t tried it, skiing just might surprise you.
