ill get us started with skiing in general throughout my life while i work out which specific day to go with:
Okay rewind back to when I
was in grade 6, back to the kid I was with a pre-pubescent squawky voice.
Growing up in the big metropolis of Toronto, yes I was a born and bred city
slicker. It all began as a school trip, it was late January, the place-Horseshoe
Valley, a fine specimen of a hill with the ridiculous vertical rise of 95
metres, and the longest run being 671 metres. The condition in Southern Ontario are like no other, with
beautiful shiny ice strips and patches right around every corner of groomers,
it was easy to see myself as a bobsledder of skiies.
But I digress,
arriving with +100 gapers from my school, myself included, in grade 6, the
dilemma of properly fitting boots to a hundred plus kids caused chaos and
havoc, but I persevered as one of the first kids out the door with ski, poles
and all-goggles not included.
Now with the
TDSB (Toronto District School Board)- strict son of a guns- you have to get
stickers: red, blue, green being the final one to allow you to different part
of the hill.
I am not sure
how but I managed to slide my ass down the icy sloops to achieve my green
sticker, allowing full mountain (really?) privileges.
The rest of the
day consisted of races and yardsales, many, and the day that started my
passion for skiing. Just out on the snow, having a great time with
isn’t that the whole point of skiing, let alone life. The seed was
a metaphorical sense, and from that day on I’ve been thinking,
talking, watching and writing about skiing. I remember the nights
before i would go skiing, i would be so pumped, and stoked just
thinking about ripping lines, a long time before the park picture came
into my head.
Just the feel
when you know you are the first one down a run, or a line, even if it is a
groomer. The fresh S’s are carved, imprinted into one of Mother Nature’s greats
gifts to mankind (fire is so overrated), soon to be washed out by others.
what skiing is, and means to me, can only be done successfully by looking at
the smile that gleams across my face at the end of an epic line, or newly
Since that day
long ago in the 6th grade, I have skied everywhere in Southern Ontario,
including the private resorts. My first full year (a ski year in Ontario is
roughly 4.5 months) consisted of Sunday lessons. Lessons might sound lame, but
to me it meant guaranteed skiing at least once a week. And hey, lessons
were only half a day so I could spend the 2nd half, doing whatever
the hell my heart desired. My skiing has even led my family to Quebec to ski a
small portion of their great mountains, and out west to Colorado, a trip of a
lifetime. (If you ever find yourself in Copper with nothing do, hit up the free
cat skiing, as it will put the cherry atop almost all ski trips)
Although my pow
day can be counted on one hand, I still cringe( I’ve got therapy for the
cutting) when the skies are full of
falling flakes and I’m stuck at the prison, the government officials like to
refer to as “school”. Maybe my time has come to just move out west and start my
dream as a ski bum.