Ski Story

To ski, or not to ski, that is the question.

Well, it never used to be a question -- once upon a time. Once upon a time, like, 30 years ago. Having started skiing at the late age of 26, I was a late bloomer in the ski world and the passion of the moment was to "catch up" to all my friends who could ski anywhere without fear of the speed or falling down. And having never been the athletic type, that was a challenge in itself. The only way to stay on course was to clock in the number of hours and days that one spent on the ski slopes. Like in any sport or hobby, the more you do it, the better you are.

Although I had gone skiing with my Mama as a wee one many times, and had learned how to lace up the ski boots (yes, once upon a time, boots were made of leather and had to be laced up, just like ice skating shoes) and snow plow, I was never very good at it. In fact, the only thing I can remember is being cold, wet, and miserable, so skiing was not considered to be one of my favorite pasttimes. Who in the right mind wanted their extremities to get frostbitten and enjoyed their legs contorting into different angles? No, I couldn't see what was fun about wearing three pairs of thick socks and still getting cold feet. But I loved the snow. I loved to step outside and look up, feeling the soft touches of wetness on my nose and cheeks. But I loved it the most when I was next to a warm potbelly stove inside, while watching the flurry of angels falling from the sky outside. So maybe it doesn't come as a surprise when I ask when it's worth going skiing or not. After all, it is said that people revert to their "original" ways as they grow older. And as babyboomers, we are constantly reminded that we were pampered with diapers and one day, we shall depend on them again!

So, here I was, three decades later, watching the dark sky from our favorite ski resort lodge, Roli Hof, in Norikura Kogen, Nagano Prefecture.
Was it cold? Would I need an extra vest? Did I want one of those hand-warmy-things that had sticky tape on one side so you could stick it onto your t-shirt and it would keep your back toasty warm for 8 hours? Did I even want to be out there for 8 hours? And as I wondered, I saw.
I saw, not little whisps of feathery white flakes from the heavens, but big droplets of water. Yes, tears from heaven, making vertical ice rinks on the perfectly manicured ski slopes.

And with that, the question of to ski or not to ski was answered.
I had graduated from lace-up shoes.