My favorite farmer loves to downhill snow ski. He has wonderful memories of childhood family skiing trips to Colorado, and also spent one winter working in Steamboat Springs, CO during college to take advantage of the beautiful mountain slopes.
I ski like a Floridian who spent her formative years digging in the sand and swimming in the ocean. My good friend from college competed on the Dartmouth Alpine team, and taught me to ski my senior year in exchange for a few good laughs…
In the last 16 years, Matt and I have taken five or six ski trips back to Steamboat Springs. I am proud to say that I not only ski the blue trails, but I try to make use of each and every inch of snow as I diligently make my way down the mountain. My pride necessitates skiing well enough to do the blue trails, my common sense determines my speed…
My older two daughters will likely ski the black trails with their Dad at some point this weekend. I can promise you that I will not. I actually find that I ski much better when I can not see my children and, therefore, do not worry about them breaking their necks as they venture down the slopes.
I figure that I have enough to worry about getting myself down the trail and then back up the lift…The truth is that I am afraid of heights. The highest that I like to get is the back of my favorite black quarter horse.
Unfortunately, the ski lift is much higher. It took several trips for me to desensitize myself enough to the ski lift that I wasn’t holding on to my husband’s arm with a death grip as we soared above the slopes.
I can admit that the view is beautiful. God’s paintbrush is as prevalent in the beautiful Rocky Mountains as it is in my own beloved Great Plains. My greatest love is to be outdoors, so for that reason I enjoy skiing.
Perhaps this weekend I will ski with the fearless abandon of my family—but don’t hold your breath