A Tear in My Eye
The bunny slope: where generations meet and magic is made. Bryce (Bear), age 3, with Grandpa Gary at Winter Park, CO, 2009.
My early memories of skiing are more nervous energy than abject terror. I recall staring up at the daunting face of the steep Norwegian run at Winter Park, CO, curious if such vertical relief was even possible to ski. Then there was the time on the old Summit Chair at Loveland where I missed the mid-station and, certain of my pending death, leapt from the chair. My sister Kelp watched the whole scene unfold, and despite my dad’s look of disappointment, Kelp could not stop laughing. That was a common theme of our childhood. My toe still bends funny.
In fact, a lot of me bends funny. There’s a lump on my shoulder from an aerial stunt gone wrong beneath the cliffs on the Northwoods Express, scars traversing my knees, shins devoid of any remnant of hair.
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