I think I was knee high to a grasshopper when I started to ski. Dad was head of the Ski Patrol on Mt. Norquay so my sister and I would go to work with him to give Mom a break. Mom still had to deal with my little brother at home but only having one kid around was possibly easier than three underfoot.
I’m on the right in the uber fashionable wool ski outfit.
The whole first winter we sidestepped (or herringboned when we got more
coordinated) to the top of the beginner run and then skied down. Over and over
again. All day. Other skiers were lucky. They had tickets to ride the
poma lifts, the T-bar and the infamous glove-eating rope tow. It never once crossed
my mind that having to walk up the hill to ski down was a character building opportunity but it’s possible that was what Dad intended it to be.
I don’t recall getting instructions on how to do the snowplow let alone how to glide down the hill carving graceful parallel turns. I think it was assumed we would figure it out via osmosis and our gene pool since Dad was such an awesome skier.
Dad being awesome
The next winter my sister and I got ski passes to ride the lifts. Swooshing down the runs without having to walk up the hill was life altering and a pretty fabulous way to spend the day.
As I got older, it got more expensive for my parents to buy equipment and lift tickets for all of us. Fortunately, Mt. Norquay had a program to earn free ski passes.
The upper lift, referred to as the Big Chair, didn’t have appropriate grooming equipment because it had the steepest runs in North American (at the time). If skiers skied on the runs accessed by the Big Chair at the beginning of the season, before the snow was packed, the snow would sluff down and the rocks and grass would be exposed. To solve the problem, the manager of Mt. Norquay got a bunch of volunteers to pack the hill with their skis which established a solid base so the snow would stick to the steep runs. I was one of the many volunteers eager to earn my free ski pass.
All I had to do was ride the chair to the top and make my way down by side-stepping and packing the loose snow. Step by step. No sliding. No skiing. No horsing around.
The red arrow is the top of one of the runs on the Big Chair.
I packed from
the arrow to the red snow fence near the bottom – numerous
times.
For
those who don’t ski, imagine yourself dressed in winter clothes and then put on a pair of heavy
boots. Strap long boards onto your boots. Grab two sticks to use as poles. Go
to the top of the steepest hill you can find. Stand horizontal on unpacked snow
of said hill. Lift your bottom leg up and set it down about six inches below
you. Maintain your balance – that’s important. Now lift your top foot to meet
your bottom foot. Repeat the movement a bazillion times until you get down the
run. Ride the chair up again. Repeat process. Continue for eight hours. Thirty
minutes off for lunch. Go home. Come back the next day. Do it again.
And trust me, we were being watched. No one dared get caught sneaking in a few turns for fear of losing a free season of skiing.
On Sunday when the lift closed, I was handed my pass. Living in Alberta, many months of skiing was in my future and it was easy to wake up in the winter morning’s darkness, crawl into Dad’s cold car, just so I could be the first one on the lift. Skimming through champagne powder, carving around moguls and schussing to the bottom – having to pack the hill for two days was totally worth it. Every. Single. Step.
I took my 92 year old Dad to Mt. Norquay this fall and we stared up the hill for a long time to reminisce. We’ve spent over half a century making memories on this very mountain.
Mt. Norquay is the same hill my main character, Jillian, learns to snowboard on. And one day, possibly in Book 4, she’ll go up the Big Chair and impress Greg with her carving abilities.
.jpg)
