My parents started teaching me to ski at age 3. Like they say, start ‘em young. By the time I was 7, skiing was second nature. Like walking. You point your tips downhill, and you go.
Of course, there was oodles of effort behind the scenes that I never thought about: buying the gear, packing it in the car, signing me up for ski lessons, paying for my seasons pass. Not to mention that one time my slippery ski boots sent me flying into a toilet seat at the lodge restroom and I went home with six stitches to my forehead. I still have the scar.
I never realized how lucky I was to grow up skiing until two decades later. I was skiing solo at Snoqualmie Pass, taking a personal day from my design job in the big city, and rode the lift up with a talkative mom. She filled me in on exactly how long it took to get her kids into their gear, up to the hill, and onto the slopes. Time, money, and lots and lots of patience.
I emailed my mother as soon as I got home. “Thank you,” I wrote. Which is why I have no regrets whatsoever donating my time and skills to a worthy cause such as Mt Ashland Ski Area, so that the next generation can learn to ski just like I did.