First Winter On Skis
Field Note I:
I didn't grow up skiing. For most of my life winter was something to get through, not enter into.
I live in Michigan and never even considered it. Snow meant shoveling the driveway, gray skies, and counting weeks until spring. Winter was endured, not used.
At the start of the year, my wife and I decided to try skiing for no real reason other than we hadn't found something new together in a while. My idea. She actually made it happen.
The first day was with a seasoned instructor who skipped the wedge and taught us parallel skiing right away. It was hard and there were several falls. It wasn't impressive, smooth, or particularly comfortable. But somewhere in the middle of struggling down the hill I noticed that I felt unusually awake; not just entertained, but alert. We both did.
A couple of close friends joined us that day, snowboarding around us, witnessing our failed attempts, and picking us up off of the snow. It should have felt like a novelty outing. Instead, we left thinking about skiing constantly.
Within days we were researching gear: skis, boots, bindings, and poles. The rabbit hole opened and we went all the way in. I tend to love anything involving learning deeply and adjusting precisely. Suddenly I cared about something I had ignored my entire life. That's where the energy was building.
The Winter Olympics in Milan Cortina started not long after. I'd never paid much attention before. Now I found myself watching downhill runs and actually somewhat understand what I was seeing. It didn't make me want to race, but it made me want to get better.
Our second trip felt different. We had our own equipment, just enough technique to move intentionally, and no pressure to prove anything. We dropped the kids at grandma's and went out in the afternoon without a big plan.
When the hill paused for grooming, we entered the lodge. A cover band played Eagles songs while we grabbed something to drink and warmed up. Then back out.
Night skiing changed it. The lights flattened the world into what mattered: the next turn, the next patch of snow. There isn't room for distraction when gravity is involved. Your body makes decisions faster than thought, and for a few hours the part of you that manages emails, bills and everyday logistics goes quiet. It's physical, but it's also clarifying. It's the feeling of someone clearing your mental RAM.
The slopes emptied and the lifts became quiet. The turns started connecting instead of reacting. We focused on posture, speed, and timing without talking much. Hours passed without checking phones or thinking about what was waiting at home. Skiing created a parallel presence between us. We experienced the same terrain, conditions, and challenges. It's bonding without conversation. I find this very rare in adult life.
At first, I thought skiing was filling a void. But it wasn't replacing an old habit. It was replacing what that habit was trying to imitate. The same boundary shows up at the end of the night; the sense that the day was complete and nothing needs to be dulled or extended.
We aren't planning a weekly ritual. We don't intend to wake up early to make an event of it. We go when it becomes obvious and logistics allow.
I used to hate winter. Now it contains something I look forward to sharing. When we leave, there's a steady calm that stays longer than the drive home.
I didn't expect skiing to matter. That‘s probably why it does.
