Skiing Between Generations: A Letter to my Father

Dear Dad, the last few weeks I have been in several places where I wanted to talk to you. This morning, it was a walk among the trees along the Shiawassee River and I wanted to hear your stories about sycamores, hackberries, and other southern species that continue to thrive in mid-Michigan. A week ago, I was skiing and remembered our many times together on the slopes. Eighteen months after your passing, I try to move on, but your absence pokes and prods me often. 

A year ago I was on a snowy slope in Colorado and I so wanted to call you and talk.  I needed you to tell me the name of the bare-sloped mountain across the Blue River from the Tenmile Range, you know where, above the road to Hoosier Pass.  I was in the midst of some glorious skiing with your granddaughter Abbie, and we both wanted to tell you about the sunshine, the soft snow, and the cruising turns we had just made at the Breckenridge ski resort.

Half a century ago, you and I were here, me a new skier on a first western trip and you an old hand. We had driven two days across the middle of America, observing sandhill cranes along the Platte River, and listening to John Denver sing on the radio about a Rocky Mountain High. Back then I talked about skiing: favorite runs and gear, the powder snow which was so different than the hardpack in Michigan, and the end-of-the-day allure of Coors beer which at the time could not be legally acquired east of the Mississippi River. You talked more about the place: the name of the peaks and passes, the history of hydraulic mining, railroad tunnels, and roads old and new. 

In Colorado without you, the skiing still captivated me. In the morning there was the high altitude dichotomy of warm sun and bracing air, yesterday’s slush in the gondola line now crunching underfoot. We applied sunscreen and adjusted gloves and hat as we rode up into the alpine zone, passing  tall pines, orange-brown poles adorned with dark green branches weighed down with small heaps of snow. The horizon was upright, jagged, a jumble of white peaks, forested slopes, snowy chutes, and harsh rocks. 

Atop the mountain the smooth snow invited us downhill, and I thought of you, energized by the mountains, your eyes hidden by dark glasses but your face alive with excitement. It was like before: the field of snow empty, the turns wide and fast, the air colder as we sped downhill; however, the skier in front of me was my progeny, not my father. Like you, she came to a stop at a trail junction to be sure I was keeping up, but she didn’t linger for a chat. Our joy is in the action, and we were off again, downhill.

I was just happy to ski again. It had been four years of distractions, a pandemic, and a recent infection that had put me in the hospital for three days. “Where should we ski next?” your granddaughter asked as we looked at the smartphone app that told us the wait time at lift lines. “I don’t care,” I said, “I’ve reached my goal for the day.” One morning on the slopes was sufficient, though we would ski for three more.  Did you get as many days of skiing as you wanted in your 93 years? How many more runs will I have? And how many more for your granddaughter?

Abbie and I made it another year. This March, we skied at Beaver Creek, a somewhat newer resort I don’t think you ever visited.  The same thrill was there again, and this time with our partners.  Anna was back on the slopes after a four-year hiatus, putting a damaged knee to the test (successfully!) and Eduard, a relatively new skier, had gained enough skill to keep up with us all. With gentle hills stretching off to the north, most of the views were not as grand as they are in the Tenmile Range, but the Gore Range at a distance to the east provided a Rocky Mountain backdrop. 

The days were warmer this year, and the snow a little sloppy, especially at the base of the resort.  But we got some new snow one night, and the slopes at higher elevations welcomed all four of us to zip among frosted pines.  Every day is a gift, and the last one of our trip was one of the best.  I want more, and I began to think I might be able, like you, to ski another decade or two.  But how many of us, if any, will have the opportunity to enjoy this winter sport in the years ahead?

Dad, I missed you on the slopes, but I also thought of you when I looked at the signs in the ski lodge. You’d enjoy the maps, the historical explanations, and the tributes to one of your heroes, Gerald Ford, who made this resort his winter retirement home. But what of these other signs with green letters, photos of flowing water and wind turbines,  a cryptic “Commitment to Zero” and detailed exhortations to recycle? We saw them last year at Breckenridge, and on websites, trail maps, and billboards along the highway. The signs are everywhere.

Ski areas, and some skiers, are very worried about climate change. In the last two decades the ski season has shortened a week. In North America, the ski industry has lost $5 billion because of climate change.  “We are probably past the era of peak ski seasons,” said Dr. Daniel Scott of the University of Waterloo in Ontario.  Other research predicts that 13% of ski areas will lose all natural snow before the century is out and all will experience shorter seasons, less snow, and more rain.  If I have grandchildren, they may be the last generation in my family to ski.

Dad, seven months after you died, Mom gave up the fight and joined you.  This year, I missed you both and our family ski trips. With no parents, I am often reminded that my time too is finite. But in the rush of a downhill run, I am lost to the present. Stopping on the side of the slope looking up, or down, for my daughter and her boyfriend, I think of the future. The clouds were moving today and the sunbeams shifted, lighting up unbroken forests and then rocky crags. While I am not eternal, I know this place is.  

“Save the Planet” is a misnomer.  The planet, the earth we live on, will persist with or without us. The question we need to confront is who will be able to enjoy life – to ski and hike, and breathe fresh air that freezes your nostrils, and drink clean water and eat well – in this place and all other places.  The next few decades will probably be fine for me, though I miss cross country skiing out my back door like I did all winter long as a teen.  I worry more about what life will be like for those who come after us. 

Dad, I am in the generation between yours, which knew nothing of climate change when you were young, and the generations that grew up with the reality of climate change. When I was young, you shared with me your knowledge of trees and taught me a love of natural places, but your  journey towards an acceptance of climate change was bumpy.  Your confidence in science kept you from being a denialist, but you downplayed the significance of climate change for three decades.  Like all of us, you didn’t want to believe the crisis was so dire, and of course it would not have been had your generation acted sooner.  In your last year, you told me that nothing we can do will make a difference, and from your point of view at 93, I couldn’t argue with you. 

While we are all very fortunate that we had several ski trips of three generations when my children were first learning to ski, I wish you could have skied with Abbie and me these past two winters. Despite her awareness, and my best advice I worry that she too is losing  hope. What have we left for the generations that will follow? 

We have left our kids a warmer planet, but we have also left them with the tools to halt, and perhaps reverse, the increasing amount of greenhouse gasses that are warming the atmosphere, changing the oceans, and threatening life. Fortunately, it is not too late to act, say the experts. “Some amount of change has already occurred, and some future changes are inevitable due to our past choices. However, the good news is that we know what causes it and what to do to stop it. It will take courage, ambition, and a push to create change, but it can be done.”

 In 2007, a group of skiers and outdoor enthusiasts were concerned enough to organize through a group called Protect Our Winters.  Several ski areas, including Vail Resorts which owns Breckenridge and Beaver Creek, began their own initiatives more than a decade ago. The National Ski Areas Association now has a Climate Challenge that supports corporate efforts to reduce carbon emissions.  But Auden Schendler of the Aspen Skiing Companies says “it’s not enough for resorts to just change their on-site operations to become green. They must also advocate for policies that combat climate change” (see this detailed article with video and graphics on the efforts of  ski areas to fight climate change).  Climate action depends on the individual actions of people and companies, and on changing policies at all levels of government.

Dad, the winters you knew and shared with me growing up are now being replaced with warmer ones with more rain and less snow.  And it is not just the loss of a season or a sport that worries me. I realize now that you gifted me a love of place. It was such a part of you, and us, that I took for granted that mountains and trees all have specific and important names, that rivers and railroads all have a destination, and that each place is particular, with its own story.  Thank you for giving me a story, and a love of places, both close to home and far away. I hope to think of you in many of them for years to come.