I was born to skiers, raised amongst skiers, I am raising a skier of the new generation, whose genes are coded by the ancestors that preceded her in their obsession. Skiers have always been my cadre, whether in New York, or Georgia, or Hanover, or Charlottesville, or in my adopted home. Even in the deepest jungle or loneliest desert, I have come across members of the skiing tribe, adorned with enough telltale signs to begin the conversation, a common parlance, an innate understanding, that gleam, that twinkle, those crow’s feet bunched in laughter. And yet, after 45 years of the skiing life, I have returned to my skiing home, for the first time.
Arriving in Austria, blasting down from Munich in an all-wheel-drive German machine, I already knew the place, its essence sprinkled as seasoning throughout my existence. Residing now in a town flavored by boys and girls of this alpine hinterland, I chuckle as I see the true Tyrol, having heretofore only tread its simulacrum. The Valley’s vanguard left this geography, out of choice or necessity, and brought their traditions to a new continent, taught legions of Americans the morays and modes of schussing the high mountains.
Driving up the valley road at night, greeted at our accommodation by my brother, my oldest and best ski partner, I was almost too giddy to sleep. Yet the vicissitudes of travel engendered an exhaustion that sent me swirling into a dreamy slumber. Awaking, I pulled back the curtains and was greeted with a mountain scene both novel and familiar, accompanied by the rumbles of avalanche bombs that are the score to my reverie made reality. With a coprophagic grin, I walked downstairs to greet my niece and nephew, to hug my sister-in-law, to revel in our reunion over coffee and excited pre-skiing chatter.
Skiing is the pursuit of perfection, but also the appreciation for the simple act of gliding across frozen water crystals, an alchemy, magic. Tiefschnee surrounded us, tantalized us, coated peaks in every direction, but that deep-as snow was loaded with danger, alerts blasted through our phones, slides visible on all aspects, straight to the rock. It would not be the epic pow day that we had envisioned, but, especially on the hind of my recent injury, I was elated to have skis on my feet, family by my side, a cold Stiegl on a sunny deck.
I have heard very little English spoken, not a single American accent save us, it was the right choice to escape the Epically Ikonic crowds and go deep on the continental vibes. At 112 underfoot, I haven’t seen any wider skis, but I have seen a heap of tight pants, lots of kooky headwear, and not a small amount of people with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, some even while on piste. The ski culture is pervasive, not performative, and that feels spectacular, affirming, reassuring.
It has been years since I have eaten a real lunch on the slopes, but my gluttony is well-accommodated by the many hüttes we cannot pass, beckoned by old-world architecture and a panoply of caloric delights, a quick espresso here, a massive Kaiserschmarrn there, a steaming bowl of erbsensuppe for good measure. I could give an intense disquisition solely on the pastries – there’s a reason that the French call them viennoiseries.
It is becoming hard to imagine how I will again have to depart from my brother and his family, how I will have to wait to return to these mountains. Our bootfitter Steffi says that the biking here is rad – summer is not far off. I will be back and I will never leave.