I learned to ski as a very young child.  Which isn't all that unusual except that I learned in the 1950's before the advent of the chairlift.  At least I had the benefit of ropetows and t-bars.  My hearty New England parents had learned to ski by climbing up the mountain first.

Living in the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts, I took sking as a winter sport all through high school.  After college, I spent three years in Vail before moving to Jackson Hole for another three.  Needless to say, I have many wonderful memories of gliding down mountains in wintertime.

But my favorite memory of all is a day spent skiing at Steamboat in the early 1970's.  The night before, it was dumping like crazy.  Looking outside, I could watch the snow accumulate on the railing outside.  Six, eight, ten inches; a foot.  And more.  My expectation and excitement grew as well.  As I went to sleep, I could hear the wind howling past my bedroom window.

The instant I awoke, I knew the storm was over.  It was one of those brilliant, crystal-clear, Colorado, blue-sky mornings.  There's a way that the light falls on the Colorado mountains on mornings like that that gives everything you see and hear and smell a distinct clarity.  The evergreens sagged under the weight of the snow and the sunlight glistened and danced off every surface.  It was like Tinkerbelle had waved her wand over the entire landscape.  And there wasn't a breath of wind.  The air was absolutely still.

On the chairlift ride up the mountain, I wished I could plant my poles in the snow and push it up faster.  And now comes my memory. 

Tree skiing on a powder day is my favorite kind - even better than getting into a tuck and just bombing a groomed slope like Franz Klammer - although that gives me a big rush, too.  The run was a series of giant steps through an aspen glade.  I love the momentary feeling of weightlessness that comes when you lift off the face of a steep decline.  The snow wasn't the deepest I ever skied, but it was the lightest, most delicate I have ever known.  It had a kind of gossamer quality to it that made me think I was sking through the Aurora Borealis.  The sun was coming from behind me so my shadow lengthened out in front of me and I could watch myself ski.  It was like being in front of a mirror.

Often when I go skiing there comes a moment - usually when I'm on a chairlift - when I get to watch a skier making graceful, effortless turns ducking in and out of the trees at the edge of a run.  I imagine that person is the best skier on the mountain.  On that day at Steamboat, I was that person.  It wasn't just one of my best days skiing.  It was one of my best ever.

Jeff Reebie