Growing up, whenever my mom took my brother and I skiing, there was one rule: no whining allowed. I definitely broke that rule, usually complaining about itchy wool, carrying heavy skis, or the snow getting down my pants. Mom ignored me. I disliked ski school and thought the instructors were mean because they wouldn’t let me hold onto the PVC pipe they used to guide students down the slope. I wanted to be cute and helpless like them! Mom ignored me. I didn’t like my ham and cheese sandwich mom packed for lunch. She ignored me, and rightfully so. Despite the whining, I lived for these trips which were planned by my mom and her best friend who had kids the same age. After ski school days and we got our freedom, we could find caddy corners along the trees and catch sweet, sweet air; sing from the top of our lungs on the lift; cackle as we watched the parents eat fake crab and cocktail sauce from a Ziplock bag during lunch.
As we got to be even better skiers, the No Whining Rule was replaced with the There-are-no-friends-on-powder-days Rule, meaning we wouldn’t stop all day, we’d eat on the chair lifts, and whiners always got ditched. My mom could always find the best stashes of snow which were usually tucked into the trees. Her lines cut perfect curves through back bowls and moguls. I loved watching her glide down the mountain in her belted one-piece jump suit.
Skiing was, and still is, my mom’s passion. Her first time on skis was in Minnesota as a college student where she used a rope tow and wore her dad's long underwear and knitted mittens, and she has never stopped. Choosing Santa Fe as her new home after college was largely based on the ability to ski between nursing shifts. My dad started skiing in 1984. He was 30 and had just joined the Up the Creek Ski Club, where he met his future wife, my mom. They've been skiing since.
Each Colorado ski season has always been met with crossed fingers, but my parents never waivered their commitment to get days in. So much so, as an adult, I’d often tease them to branch out and try new places. Eventually, they did ski in Montana a few times, where my brother and his family live. Mark and I finally convinced them to ski in Austria, Slovenia, and Spain with us. They liked it well enough, but it still wasn’t Colorado. I had to agree with them. In Europe, there’s no-wait lift lines, free parking, and affordable lift tickets, but it also means constant gray sky, flat light, little tree skiing, wind blown runs, and powderless snowpack.
In March, Mark and I took the kids back to France to ski for spring break. I wasn’t uber excited, but we needed to get out of Central Asia. Mark, who learned to ski in Oregon rain and rightly thinks I’m a snow snob, loves that we can do it as a family. His endearing sentimentality shuts me up, especially since we only have a few more years as a unit of four before the kids leave for college. I would rather feel the ugh of questionable snow conditions than the feeling of regret, so we packed our gear and took flights to get there. (Unfortunately my parents couldn’t make it on this trip but were there in spirit, especially now that Colorado had its worst snow season in history, leaving them unable to scratch that ski itch.)
Over the course of five days, Les Contamines and St. Gervais endured a series of downpours, fog, and high winds, but we also got fresh snow, blue sky, and warm conditions that felt exactly like the old Colorado ski days. Mark and I were shocked about our good fortune. I felt unconquerable and we skied to exhaustion, trying to imprint fabulous snow and family time into a core memory. I had nothing to whine about. Ok I whined a little for my sore knees and back because well… I’m old and complaining is what old people do.
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| Fully leaning into ski French life. |
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| French folks know how to pick a view. From the shower! |
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| Even better from the patio. |
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| Child #1 whom I barely got photos of he skied so much. |
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| Shocked by this thing called sunshine. My favorite Schlinks. |
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| Walking into town for cheese and wine. |
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| Mayo by the gallons but not ketchup. The French can't be perfect. |
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| My mugger. |
