It’s all downhill from here. What happens when an adult learns to ski

By Christopher Muther GLOBE STAFF  FEBRUARY 28, 2019

(my old friend and former colleague, Rick Sokoloff, is the Stowe Mountain Resort ski instructor in this article)

A skiier who is far more skilled than the author heads into the sunrise at Stowe Mountain Resort. Photo:  ANDERSON JAMES

A skiier who is far more skilled than the author heads into the sunrise at Stowe Mountain Resort.
Photo:
ANDERSON JAMES

STOWE, VT — A funny thing happens every November in the Boston Globe newsroom. My editor mentions that our annual ski issue is coming up, and I make like one of David Copperfield’s rabbits and magically disappear. 

I bear no ill will toward skiing. I have fond memories of sitting in ski lodges and eating nachos, as one does on a ski weekend. But the problem with going skiing is that eventually I’m expected to clip horribly uncomfortable boots to a pair of waxed up planks and go down a hill in the frostbite-inducing cold. I’m convinced this sport is the brainchild of some sort of Arctic Marquis de Sade. 

I’m not saying this as a passive observer. I was a member of my high school ski club, which meant that I climbed on a bus every Monday night, snowplowed my way through a couple of rounds on the bunny hill, and then retired to the lodge with a plate of nachos while watching “Designing Women.” Like a peacock in a parka, I left every ski tag on my jacket through the season, hoping the paper plumage gave the colorful illusion that I was tearing up the slopes.

Read the rest of the article at the Boston Globe.