Jul 29, 2016
By Jules Older
Skiing to Freedom
Jules Older
During the winter of 1981, normally peaceful New Zealand was ripped apart by rugby. The government had permitted the Springboks, apartheid South Africa’s national rugby team, to tour New Zealand, playing against our revered All Blacks.
“Ripped apart” isn’t hyperbole — the tour pitted brother against sister, parent against child, Maori tribes against each other. We talked of nothing else; think the Simpson trial, the Bush-Gore election and Trump vs. Clinton all rolled into one heated argument. After a surfeit of demonstrations, police baton charges and 24/7 news coverage, I took my family to the mountains for five days of peace.
We settled into a big, rustic ski-club hut with an amiable group of strangers. For four days, we never spoke of The Tour — and never spoke of not speaking of it. When one guy broke this tacit vow of silence and weighed in with his opinions, he was swiftly and firmly shut up by the friends he’d come with. Instead of national politics, we spoke of the reflection of the Southern Alps in the blue waters of Lake Tekapo, of sunshine and soft snow, of how fast our children were learning to ski.
Ten years later, I spent a week skiing with the National Brotherhood of Skiers at the bi-annual Black Summit in Park City, Utah. The 1991 Summit coincided with the second week of the War in the Gulf. Though every other topic was thrashed and trashed, though most of us were grabbing snippets of CNN at every chance, though some folks had relatives battling tanks in desert sands, the taboo against talking about the war was every bit as strong as the silence in New Zealand a decade before. Instead, we spoke of the splendors of the Wasatch, the terrors of Jupiter Peak, the pleasures of lunch on the sun-soaked deck of Mid-Mountain Lodge.
I offer these examples as evidence of the freedom of skiing. Both in the Southern Alps and the Wasatch Range, we set ourselves free from the angst, the anger and the arguments that raged back home.
What is it about skiing that lifts this sport out of the ordinary and and lets it set us free?
The first step to freedom is getting away from the humdrum of ordinary life. And to ski, almost everyone has to purposely go somewhere, to leave home. That, alone, sets it apart from softball and billiards and golf.
Not only do you have to leave town to ski, you must go to the mountains. Long before the Sermon on the Mount, long before Moses climbed Mount Sinai to collect the Ten Commandments, long before Noah’s ark landed on Mount Ararat, mountains have been hallowed places. Maybe it’s because you have to struggle (“We are climbing Jacob’s Ladder”) to reach the peak, maybe because they’re the closest points on Earth to heaven. Whatever the cause, mountains are sacred. And the sacred, the holy, brings with it a feeling of escape from the ties that bind us down below.
We also get a feeling of glorious freedom from scenic beauty. Framed by cerulean sky, green-needled trees and the incredible whiteness of snow, skiing is a pastime of exalted beauty.
But location, no matter how vertiginous and comely, is mere backdrop. I believe it is the sport, itself, that really frees mind and spirit. Ever try to figure your taxes while traversing a steep trail? No? How about planning a sales pitch while tree skiing? Not that either? What makes skiing extraordinary is that it’s almost impossible to concentrate on anything else while you’re doing it. Skiing is all-consuming; it demands total attention. And not just on how to get through the next twist in the trail. Often the focus is the giddy, lightheaded feeling that comes when your turns are round, your skiing effortless and your skis carving perfect arcs through perfect snow.
One final example. The day I most needed the freedom of skiing was on September 13, 2001, forty-eight hours after thousands of Americans were massacred on American soil. During those hours, I wandered between the computer, NPR and CBS. My wife and I did a lot of hugging. We spoke to our far-flung daughters three, four times a day. My voice was rough with grief. My heart — my whole body — felt weighed down by sorrow. My predominant feeling oscillated between massive hurt and burning rage.
Again, I took to the hills, this time to Whitefish, Montana and the Green Mountains of Vermont. Again, skiing freed my troublin’ mind.
In New Zealand and Utah, Montana and Vermont; during division and disturbance, destruction and death, skiing has brought me peace. Peace and freedom.
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About the Author
Jules Older
Jules Older, Ph.D. Jules in a tweet... Jules Older PhD: psychologist>medical educator>writer>editor> app creator>videographer>blogger>ePublisher. Big awards, adventures, fun. My life in an atlas... Baltimore > Vermont > New York > New Zealand > Vermont again > San Francisco Jules Older Jules Older’s life isn't exactly an advertisement for predictability. He's lived in Baltimore, Vermont, New York, New Zealand and San Francisco. He’s been a ditch digger, child-care worker, clinical psychologist