“You’re mad!” remarked the vegetable seller happily when I mentioned my ski trip plans. An predictable response since recently I had been out on supports due to a hip surgery. My sister’s friends were even more worried: “How old are you? 80? I don’t think this is a wise plan. You’ll have an accident and hurt yourself.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, chose it was safer not to tell other people.
A Hidden Desire
Over the past twenty years I held a quiet longing to experience one more ski trip. A concluding dose of clear skies, chilly air and the excitement that comes with making it down safely at the end of a snowy run. I wasn’t very skilled, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that wasn’t the point. Now in my eighties, I felt compelled to check if I could still do it. And if I could do it, how about inviting Kate, my sister, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who support each other to do parkrun each week? It then occurred to me that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on my initial winter sports trip. Sixty-seven years had passed, but Andrew had some talent, so I invited him too. A companion named Penny, who is surprisingly spry (allegedly 67 years old) that she doesn’t really count, was given permission to join and venture out with the elders and brush up on German. We all made an effort to get as fit as possible, but none of us had skied for over forty years.
Picking the Location
Seefeld, located in the Tirol region, was the spot we selected, as it provides diverse cold-weather pursuits – if we managed to get through our brief skiing instruction on the opening day (frankly, was all the downhill skiing we had planned) – and is happily without evening revelry. It draws in family groups rather than partying youngsters, and is characteristically Austrian, with onion-domed churches and chalet-type houses. Our base was the cozy, independently owned a local hotel and we ate at a different restaurant each evening.
“It’s known as Kaiserwetter,” explained Janina, our leader when I remarked we couldn’t believe our luck at waking each morning to unblemished heavens, pleasant rays and plenty of snow for early March.
Everyone acted as if just to be thrilled, without any concern, as we boarded a shuttle to the winter sports zone. It was crowded with families and youngsters carrying skis and full of life. I thought I caught the staff member assisting with our rental equipment showing skepticism at the situation.
I expected to slip as soon as I moved. Yet I remained upright. No one fell.
Ulrich, our teacher, who had been told we were older, beamed valiantly as we walked up. Our voices were somewhat raised, smiling too broadly, maybe attempting to delay the moment when we had to step into the bindings. Inside, I felt certain I’d fall over immediately upon starting. But I didn’t. No one else fell either. Our instructor showed great patience, giving us enough time at each stage of the lesson to become more confident.
Modern Skiing Advances
Current ski equipment is more user-friendly, I discovered – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards I remember from the 60s that frequently caused me to slip from the lift. We knew we would not be trusted on a ski lift whatsoever, so thought we’d have to painstakingly climb the slope and ski down, tumbling during the descent. It worked like that in the fifties. However, we found a wonderful new device, a conveyor belt, or motorized path, that transported us easily to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was filled with brave kids. We stood out as the sole seniors.
Two hours later, we hadn’t even fallen, had everyone performed adequate plow maneuvers and even a sort of parallel turn. We were euphoric. “That was just amazing!” said Andrew, who isn’t given to hyperbole.
Additional Adventures
Would we have handled a whole week of skiing? Possibly, but the range of options Seefeld offered was more enticing. We could go walking around different lakes, public transport allowing visits to absolutely charming hamlets, and the “snowy walk to the alpine hut, 2.9 miles followed by sled descent”, as the brochure nonchalantly explained.
Having watched the Winter Olympics, my sister and I knew all about sledding. You run behind, pushing the sled, then leap on and hurtle down on your front at velocities comparable to racing cars. Janina was reassuring. Nothing to worry about: we’d sit on the sled and guide it using our feet. Yet we remained apprehensive. Andrew chose not to participate but we three plugged on.
A man in a scarlet onesie skidded by yelling back related to Kate.
As a 12-year-old it was exhausting hauling my father’s homemade toboggan up a snowy incline in the English county in our snowy childhood, and now in my eighties it was tiring hauling an admittedly lighter toboggan uphill in oxygen-depleted air (the mountain restaurant, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at 1,410 metres) for nearly 3 miles. I fell behind, complaining quietly about my age being a hindrance. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm
