There is a sweet spot in spring skiing. It exists somewhere between 8,000-10,000 feet and sometime between 10 am and 2 pm and between crusty, icy snow and slosh. It’s where the snow gently embraces my skis and helps me create small, graceful turns. It’s the place where I find joy.
It’s been a while since I found that spot. Or had that joy. I thought I could get it back, but I discovered today, it’s gone for good.
It’s ok.
It’s time.
I had hoped I’d ski till 90. Then I adjusted it to 80. But approaching 79, it’s quite clear skiing is done with me. And there are so many reasons.
My injured spinal column can no longer accommodate the positions necessary. The fused spine has caused the muscles to spasm and tighten, so the memories disappeared as my body adjusted to the titanium ladder that holds me erect.
My feet didn’t understand the mountain anymore. My knees didn’t respond to the bumps and the turns. My body couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to be upright or a bit forward.
I went skiing today to give myself one final chance to experience the joy that had captivated me for so many years. I told myself that if I had one brief second of elation, I’d renew my season pass.
I didn’t.
On the way down, I stopped to talk to an instructor. I asked her if she still got joy from skiing. She did. I told her I didn’t anymore. She looked at me and said, “There has to be joy”.
At the bottom of the mountain, I was waiting for the shuttle. A very grumpy looking old guy came over and I asked him the same question. “Yes.” He said. But he was ending his season because there were too many kids on the slope and he hates kids. “That’s why I never got married. Didn’t want kids.” Yeech. Grumpy guy. Probably the wrong person to ask about joy.
I began my ski life at Winter Park and I’ve ended it there. I was eleven years old when I was first put on the ski train. My grandfather had insisted I go skiing, much to the horror of my athletic-adverse parents. He paid for all of it. I repaid him by being a relatively good skier. It made him proud that I could handle any slope, regardless of moguls or steepness. He was thrilled I tried out for the CU ski team even though I failed miserably.
There were many wonderful years spent chasing deep blue skies and the perfect combination of snow.
Now, nearly 70 years later, it ends.
It feels good to have made this decision. It gives me a sense of self-awareness. An honesty about my body and its ability to do things. It doesn’t say to me that I can’t hike, or bike, or climb hills. It doesn’t say to me that I can’t take on physical challenges. It simply says I can’t ski. It’s not the end of my life. It’s the end of an activity that will be replaced by other events replete with joy and wonderment. I even know what some of those are.
One happened just last night. Grandson Eyad texted he had signed his contract with a Wisconsin hospital system. He had checked it over with a lawyer friend of his (as I had suggested). Eyad is a cardiac-thoracic anesthesiologist. I simply adore him and have since the day he was born. Thinking about him makes me smile. I told him I was going to Kenya in August and hoped it wouldn’t be my last trip to Africa. He said “it isn’t. We’ll go together.”
Bingo. Joy.
Air. 
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