Powder Day Progression

Monday’s mini snow storm serendipitously coincided with a day off from both school and my family’s various ski programs. We woke to a few inches of perfect fluff covering the trees and car and driveway, with snow still sifting steadily to the ground.

A few inches constitutes a powder day in my kids’ minds, so after breakfast we made our way along snow-greased roads to the mountain. I spent the next few hours chasing my kids around the familiar ski trails of my own childhood, and I couldn’t help pondering the progression of my skiing life – from New Hampshire to the mellow hills of college days in upstate New York, then the deep snow and steep skiing of Colorado, and finally home again to continue the cycle with the next generation.

In Colorado, I worked in a ski shop a few steps from the base of the main chairlift. My bosses were skiers, and they scheduled shifts so that all employees had a ski break every day. It was during my five years in Crested Butte that I learned the “No friends on a powder day” rule. You could make plans, but if someone didn’t show, there was no waiting around; it’s every skier for herself when the getting is good.

A powder day there, whether interrupted by work or not, generally included laps on the Headwall or North Face, searching out new lines and fresh tracks each run, and recounting the day’s best turns over a couple of beers with friends. I remember skiing one perfect, snowy day without stopping to eat, run after joyful run of deep snow and sweet turns, skiing until my legs were jelly. At day’s end I was exhausted, but happy, fulfilled.

In my first winters back East the occasional storm brought a gift of knee-deep powder and soft bumps, a respite from the harder, groomed, manmade stuff. If I could sneak away from work, I would spend an hour or two skiing off the Zoomer chair, short, steep runs as familiar as my own back yard. Sometimes I’d run into friends in the lift line, and we’d ski together for a while. But the no-friends-on-a-powder-day rule stuck: there was no waiting, no adjusting to others’ work schedules. And whether it was a stolen hour or a full afternoon of skiing, I left the mountain with that same feeling of happy fulfillment.

Fast forward a few years, and I found myself with three young children, who I was determined would be skiers. Raising skiers is not for the faint of heart. It starts with years of bundling awkward toddlers and preschoolers into layers of sometimes uncomfortable clothing, coaxing small feet into rigid ski boots, schlepping skis from the car, and getting everyone’s boots into bindings, goggles and neck-warmers properly adjusted, mittens tucked into sleeve cuffs just right.

Pockets filled with chocolate and the promise of cocoa breaks provided extra incentive if needed. But there were meltdowns, of course, sometimes from tired little skiers; sometimes from the skier mom longing for the bigger runs beyond the pony slope.

Back then, I managed to sneak out once or twice a winter to ski with friends on longer, steeper, snowier terrain. On those rare occasions, the old no-friends rule went out the window. I welcomed the kid-free companionship of friends on the chairlift, and we weren’t above taking our own cocoa breaks if the wind was too cold or the lift line too long – or we simply wanted to sit and talk.

More often, though, I spent my skiing days with the kids as they honed their skiing prowess. We spent countless hours exploring kid-sized glades and hucking little airs in the mini park. I have a video of my 3-year-old son cruising down a beginner trail in a power wedge, then veering toward the woods near the bottom. “I want to ski powder,” he said, as he shuffled through an inch of fluff atop the groomed surface of the flats.

Nature or nurture? I don’t know. Probably a little bit of both. Gradually, the kids progressed to longer, steeper trails, the tight glades at the top of the mountain, hiking over the saddle for further exploration of hidden places, a faster skiing tempo.

These days I don’t often get to ski with my kids. The older two have embarked on their first year of race training, skiing with their coaches all weekend and learning how to carve fast, smooth turns into hard snow. The younger one is in a group of more than two dozen of the littlest would-be ski racers, which I help coach on weekends. This all means lots of skiing for each of us, just not together.

So Monday was a treat, an unscheduled day to do whatever we liked, and we like to ski, especially when there’s fresh snow and no overlying agenda. I ran sweep on each run, watching the kids negotiate soft powder interspersed with rigid hard pack, then making my own turns behind them.

The pace is slower than it was during my Colorado powder days, but considerably faster than that not-so-distant time spent on the pony slope. My skiing company Monday was a ski mom’s dream come true, and the thrill of skis through snow just as happy and fulfilling as ever.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the January 22, 2016 edition of the Littleton Record.

Beyond the pony slope

Birthday ski ~ heading down Zoomer.

My youngest child was born on a powder day to a family of skiers. It seemed apt, then, to celebrate her 5^th birthday last weekend with a family ski outing.

Last year I wrote about the many hours and days I had spent in recent winters on the pony slope, skiing in a snowplow, sometimes backwards, often with a kid between my knees or at least following close behind. I lamented the many times I had longed to be floating through powder or flying down groomed runs on my own. Paying my ski mom dues, I called it.

Well, all that pony lift time has really paid off, and this year is a new winter of wonder. With all three kids happily occupied in Cannon Mountain’s seasonal junior program from just after breakfast to just before lunch each weekend day, I have reclaimed my freedom to ski with other adults (mostly other ski moms). And the kids have developed into fine little skiers and, thankfully, love sliding around on the snow as much as I do.

My husband and I spent Sunday’s family ski time alternately leading and chasing our children down the slopes of our own childhood memories. Away from the snaking lines of their ski groups, the kids picked up lots of speed and showed us what they’ve learned this winter.

My oldest daughter careered down each trail with gleeful grace, daring the rest of us to keep up. My son, once a backseat-hockey-crouch skier, now makes smooth, confident turns and – gasp! – pole plants. The littlest one cruised right along like a miniature ski racer, arcing from turn to turn, not a care in the world except going fast enough to stick with the bigger kids.

From the snowfields above the Tramway’s summit station to the base area, our little skiers ducked into the trees – their “magic forests” – wherever they could, seeking fresh tracks and a feeling of adventure. I can remember sliding into those same magical, snowy, kid-sized hideouts when I was little and feeling the same joy I see now on my children’s faces.

We let the kids decide which trails to ski, and each run they seemed to go a bit faster than the last. I was simultaneously terrified and proud when they zoomed in Super-G style turns down Turnpike, then dropped into kid tucks for the straight run out at the bottom. Not to be outdone, the birthday girl held the lead through the last turn.

We had a blast, and I’m not sure there’s much that could make me as happy as skiing with my kids. Unless it’s skiing with my friends. And that’s the beauty of having paid my pony slope dues – and of having the kids in lessons every weekend. There is only so much my little skiers are willing to learn from Mom, so the lessons are for them. Really. But that time sans children also means I get to ski. With other grownups. Grownups who love to ski as much as I do (and don’t need help putting on mittens, zipping coats, and pulling up neck gaiters).

For some of us, it is our first winter in several years with the freedom to ski at our own pace. We are still wrapping our winter-loving minds around that fact. We can take any trail we like, ski as fast as we want, and take extended coffee breaks when the skiing is less than stellar. Often, on these breaks, we run into people we know – folks whose now-grown kids we used to coach, or other parents whose little ones are still in tow.

Those whose kids are older smile knowingly, remembering their own first taste of skiing freedom. The parents with kids younger than ours look at us longingly, wondering how many more winters until they’ll have the chance to ski with poles again and hang out in the lodge without dodging tantrums and coordinating ski-pant-clad toddler trips to the restroom.

Often, at the end of the morning when I collect my children from their instructors, the kids want to ski more. And so we take some runs before heading home, cruising around favorite trails. If there’s enough snow, we head into the woods, whooping happily along the way. If it’s all hard pack, we ski fast cruisers.

Sometimes the kids want to head to the handle tow – long the “pony slope” to me. There’s a mini park there, and they love to hurl their little skier bodies into the air, feel the wind in their faces and the joy of momentary flight. I’m content, those runs, to stand at the bottom, watching. No more pony slope for me, thanks; I’ve paid my dues there.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her blog: Writings From A Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the Feb. 28, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Paying my dues... on the pony slope

As much as possible, I try to allow my children to make their own choices and be their own people. If my 6-year-old daughter wants to wear plaid, paisley, and polka dots all together, that’s fine with me. If her twin brother wants to throw on snow boots over footie jammies and go outside to play in the snowy pre-breakfast darkness of a winter morning, no problem. If the littlest one insists on dressing her stuffed dog in pajamas and sleeping with her Halloween costume every night, it’s A-OK by me.

But there is one thing on which I will not waiver. They will, all three, be skiers. This means, of course, that I have been paying my ski mom dues over the last several winters. For the most part, I’m OK with that, even as I long for the freedom and pure bliss of a powder day all my own.

C'mon, Mom. The glades are waiting!

In our family, skiing is simply a part of life. A really good part of life. Other than my first couple years on this planet, when I was still mastering walking, plus the two winters I was massively pregnant, I have spent a good bit of each winter on a mountain, with skis strapped to my feet.

My parents met while skiing at Cannon Mountain. My brothers and I learned to ski there. My husband and I spent a good part of our early courtship on the slopes. I missed the New Hampshire mountains when I moved to the foothills of upstate New York for college – so much so that I fled west to the Colorado Rockies after graduation and stayed in those high peaks for five years. Winter means skiing, and it always has.

For much of the last five years, winter has meant – for me – skiing slowly backwards, or with a small child clutching my legs, or while holding the tethers of a kid’s ski harness. I have spent much more time on the bunny hill than I have on the steep stuff or in the powder. On the rare occasion that I am able to sneak in a few adult-only runs, I often forget my poles, having become so accustomed to skiing without them, in order to have my hands free for lifting a kid onto the lift or adjusting small mittens or helping little ski boots click into bindings.

The ski moms and dads among you will understand this – the constant tug-o-war between wanting to ditch the kids at Grandma’s house for a day of real skiing and knowing that the more time you spend progressing from bunny slope to blue trails and beyond, the sooner your kids will be right there with you on the powder days. 

You’ll also be able to relate to the answer I received recently when I asked another parent, during the weekly ski outing from school, if he’d been skiing much this season. “With poles or without?” he asked. “I haven’t skied with poles in about three years.”

People often say to me, “Just wait a few years, and you won’t be able to keep up.” I’m pretty confident in my skiing ability, and I can keep up with most people. But, yeah, that’s the goal – that I’ll have to push it to ski with my kids. That someday in the not-too-distant future, they’ll be the ones waiting for me at the bottom of the run.

For a few painful days when my older two were 3 years old and in their first ski season without a harness, I thought I would die of frustration before they learned to turn or stop on their own. Then one day, magically, they got it, and there’s been no looking back since.

This winter, finally, I can taste the skiing freedom soon to come. My kids, ages 6 and almost 4, are skiing faster and better. They confidently ski all the intermediate trails that are familiar to them and are starting to be comfortable in skiing adventures further afield than the Tuckerbrook Chairlift. They lead me through kid-sized glades and hurl themselves gleefully over the jumps in the mini park.

Already, my kids are becoming my favorite ski buddies. I’ve even started skiing with my poles again, because my little rippers are becoming self-sufficient on the slopes. I don’t always get to ski my favorite runs with them, and I certainly don’t get to go as fast as I’d like. But their joy is contagious. Their love of skiing warms a ski mom’s snow-loving heart.

I don’t care if my kids become ski racers, although if they want to, that’s fine. I don’t expect them to compete in the Olympics in 2026. I will miss them if, a dozen or more years from now, any of them decides to head 2,000 miles west – as I did as a 20-something – and pursue a life of ski bum happiness in a Rocky Mountain town. But you can bet that if they do, I’ll be out there to ski every winter. I just hope they don’t mind waiting for me at the bottom.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, published on her Blog: Writings from a full life.