Skiing With Dad

How to adjust when your parents slow down

by: Heather Hansman 

 My father is in town for 48 hours. For his one evening, I convinced him to go night skiing. We drove up Snoqualmie Pass in a downpour and crossed our fingers the temperatures would drop. He changed into his ski gear in the car, and we headed out into the just-below-freezing snain as the lights came on.

When my dad first helped me latch my hands around the rope tow, I don’t think he knew how deeply skiing would take root for me. In college, he bought me a telemark setup and, in the dark before my first tour, he helped me cut my skins—wobbly edged and uneven—under the dome light of his car. When I moved to the mountains to submerse myself fulltime in the uphill-downhill world of skiing, my dad would plan work meetings in Denver around storms and drive up I-70 to crash on my couch like one of my low-budget friends. He’d take my roommates out to dinner to alleviate the weirdness of couch dad.
There was a point, sometime around then, when I became a better skier than he was. It felt odd to worry after a few minutes when he didn’t show up at the bottom. But he was always tougher. After I got soft and would only ski for a few hours, he’d still be at the lift early on scratchy, low temp days, PBJ in his pocket, ready to burn bell-to-bell.  Read on...