There is a small hill in my front yard that is now the proving ground for my 6 and 4 year old sons. Yesterday, during a classic golden hour summer moment, the two of them were atop their small mountain bikes off-roading down this mellow slope at what they described as “infinity speed.” Bumping and bouncing around the seat along with a few tumbles at the end had me reminiscing about winters past in this very spot where each learned to stand on skis and slide on snow. Just
yesterday they would push their bikes up the hill and ride down. During their early ski forays I was the chairlift, tucking each under my arm and walking them up the hill as if I was carrying two loaves of bread. I’d pop them onto their skis and....three, two, one, dropping...send each down their respective trail. This scene played on repeat countless times until we were all out of steam and a cup of hot cocoa called. Oh how the times have changed since my pre-Dad days full of singles line laps on powder days and trips to far off destinations such as Are, Sweden and Las Lenas, Argentina. Yet, amidst the steep and early learning curve for my boys, the snots, the falls, the brotherly arguments, and a few back-breaking pick-me-ups that never seemed to end, I know that I would not trade one day with my sons for another taste of those full vertical ski days gone by.

Who would have that thought rides on a magic carpet would amount to the true glory days of my skiing experience? Tell my younger self such facts and he’d be unable to compute how I’d arrived at such a conclusion. But can you blame him? He just doesn’t know what he doesn’t know and that is this; Fatherhood is a wonderous game changer. As all parents know, the universe dramatically recalibrates the instant a child is brought into the world. It is a big bang that places that boy or girl into the very center of everything, including a world in which skiing used to be fast & furious and that downshifts to the very basics of pizza wedge snow plows in an instant. But you know what, as a Father, there have never been such exciting pizza wedges in the history of the sport, never a more wide-eyed moment than that first non-stop glide down a gentle front yard slope, and never a
more fulfilled instant than seeing the wide smile of child who feels the joy that you feel when skiing. And the fact that you might both do this together for the rest of your lives sends a positive shiver down any Father’s spine that shakes off any residual pining for those self-centered days of the past.

For whatever reason, both of my sons took to skiing rapidly. After wading beyond the tiny 2-3 year old boots and toy skis, from 4 years old and beyond each has always initiated their own version of dawn patrol requesting to take to our small low angle in hill the yard at the first sign of flakes falling from the sky. As an old skier now in the eyes of my sons, this warms my heart. Each has their preferred “trail” or route and with more comfort and balance had come more speed, or as much as their lightweight bodies could generate considering the mild slope of the yard. Gold medal Race stature notwithstanding, just the act of their independent skiing had me beaming with both pride and joy all of which were doubly amplified by statements such as “did you see how fast I was going?”, “Dad I hit a booter!”, and “Let’s do it again!” Although the latter command continues to send warning
signs from my brain to my back, I’d dutifully carry each of the boys from bottom to top, their legs and skis flopping in my arms, until in one full thump, the kids and skis would land on the ground instantly preparing for the next run. An aching back never felt so good.

I myself, have 3 brothers and lord knows that logistics needed to bring us all upon on skis. I remember similar back yard runs and plenty of crashes for us all. Likewise, I recall my parents loading our car with all manner of skis, poles, and bag lunches for outings in the White Mountains of New Hampshire at mountains such as Cranmore, Attitash, Cannon, and Wild Cat. Each day was an adventure, and it is not lost on me the gift that was given to us all. Skiing is a lifelong sport and one that has aided my friendships, worldwide travel, and created a love of the mountains where I hope my boys will continue to play long after our front yard and the magic carpets have faded to memory. During each and every trip to hills near and far I was the recipient of my parents’ selfless desire to help me ski and so to pick, eat, and enjoy the fruits of their labor. Throughout my childhood and young adulthood I continued to feast on skiing in such manner until....that universal big BANG!...my first son was born, and I was instantly transformed from recipient to provider. Now,
I am my father and mother, a thought to which I would have cringed in my 20’s but now for which I only hope to be able to live up to such a daunting and awesome billing.

With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve never been more grateful for any experience such as those that I am currently enjoying with my family. Yes, there are days when my boys and their quirky childhood personalities and antics demand superhuman patience, but all of that melts away rapidly amidst permanent memories such as those forged in our yard during the winters where skiing lives just outside our front door and beyond. Bad back be damned...solo laps goodbye....hello to the skiing 3 musketeers....my boys and me. As the sun began to fade yesterday, one last bike run down our hill leaked a question from my 4-year old, “Dad will it be snowing soon?” Then the other chimed in, his bike helmet askew, “I can’t wait to go skiing again.” I could only reply, “Me too guys...me too.”

Happy Father’s Day.