This time of year, I daydream about my favorite sport, skiing. I’m reminded the ski season is approaching when I get a call from the Santa Fe Ski Resort asking if I want to keep my ski locker. I agree to renew, which amounts to hundreds of dollars for the season. As I get closer to my 80s, it is money well spent. For you non-skiers, I can store my skis, boots, poles, and accessories, such as my helmet, gloves, goggles, and sunblock. Otherwise, each day I ski, I would have to carry ski boots, poles, and skis up several sets of steep stairs to the lodge. You could put your ski boots on in the parking lot, then hike up to the lodge wearing those clunky boots and carrying your equipment. We had to do that during the COVID-19 pandemic. It wasn’t fun!
After paying for the locker, I purchased a season ski pass. The price usually goes up yearly, but I get a considerable discount at my age. When I moved to Santa Fe eight years ago, it was almost free for skiers in their 70s and older. The pandemic changed that. I’m not complaining. I’m happy to spend my money for a winter of fun. When I started skiing in my late 20s, a single-day ski pass was around $10. Today, a single-day ticket to the most popular ski areas can cost more than $200.
That $10 price I mentioned was in the early 1970s. I had returned to school and was taking classes at NYU at night on the G.I. Bill. Some of my classes were with a guy named Bob Santos. He was a Marine veteran who had a couple of tours in Vietnam. We were born on the same day and year. Bob always had a joke or a funny story; he liked a good drink and hung out with friends in an Upper East Side watering hole called Septembers. We became fast friends. Bob, his friends, and some of my co-workers were skiers. I was intrigued by their ski adventures, and I wanted to ski, too.
One night after classes, Bob invited me to go skiing on the weekend, and he would teach me the basics. That Sunday, Anita and I drove up to Hunter Mountain in New York’s Catskills, about three hours from the city. We met Bob and his fiancée, Jane, at the base area lodge, where I was introduced to the ski rental process.
First, you're fitted with ski boots. Believe me, they aren’t made for comfort. Then come the skis. I remember being measured for the ski length by extending my arm upward with my wrist touching the top of the ski. “Perfect!” they said. Next came putting the boots into the skis. For that purpose, the skis have what they call bindings. The ski shop technician adjusts the binding to make the boot fit. Bindings are designed to release your boot from the ski if you fall. If it doesn’t, you can get hurt. Worst case scenario, you can break a leg or tear ligaments. They make sure bindings release by setting the adjustment screws for your height, weight, and ski level. Bindings for beginners are set to release quickly because you will fall often. To ensure a safe release, they put you through several contortions where you try to pull your boots out of the bindings. When you successfully do this, they turn you loose on the slopes. (Once you purchase your own equipment, you no longer have to go through the ski shop rental ordeal I mentioned.)
That day, I wore warm clothes, heavy socks, long underwear, a warm jacket, leather gloves, corduroy pants, and my newly purchased red woolen ski cap. We started on the lower part of the mountain, known as the beginner area.
I learned what they called a snowplow. Years later, some ski instructors called it pizza (both skis are in V-shaped wedge) and French Fries (skis pointed straight ahead). Besides controlling your speed, the wedge was how you slowed down, and more importantly, by pressing forcefully out, you stopped. To make turns, you were supposed to keep your knees slightly bent and your weight forward, and shifting your weight from one ski to the other allowed you to turn right or left.
To get up the beginner hill, you use a rope tow, a thick, fast-moving rope that resembles a clothesline. Before grabbing it, you had to hold your poles in one hand and grab the rope with your other, and it felt like it would pull your arm out of its socket. At the top, you pushed away from the rope and let go. This was a tricky move that usually resulted in falling. Hopefully, your skis didn’t come off. If they did, you had to get them back on by cleaning any snow off the binding and the bottom of the boot(s), opening the binding, and pressing your boots back into the binding(s).
Sounds like a lot of work. I enjoyed every minute of it and knew right away I was hooked. Bob said, “If you get goin’ too fast and you're out of control, just fall.” I fell over and over again. But I knew I was improving with each run down the mountain. Before the end of the day, Bob took me to the top of the mountain. He said I was ready. To get to it, I had to master getting on and off a chairlift. Which proved easier than that rope tow, but I still fell while getting off the lift.
When we got off the lift, Bob pointed out the infamous run where Ethel Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy’s wife, fell and broke her leg. They called it K27. We peeked over the edge. It looked like you would drop into thin air. Fortunately, there was an easy way down. But it was my first encounter with East Coast ski conditions. That is, the snow is not soft but hard-packed. Some of it looks like blue ice. I probably shouldn’t have been up there on my first day, but it was a confidence booster. I fell so often the cord on my corduroy pants was worn smooth.
That was over 50 years ago. I still love the sport. I didn’t really learn to ski until I moved out West, where ski conditions are a hundred percent better. Over the years, skiing has enabled me to meet some of the most interesting people and to ski in some of the most beautiful places. Throughout my working years, I yearned to be a ski bum. My dream came true when I moved to Crested Butte, Colorado, in my early 50s and lived there for almost 20 years. I am forever grateful to Bob Santos for taking me skiing that first time. I’m sad to say my dear friend passed away this year after a long bout with dementia, and I miss him.
My friend Bob Santos (above & below)
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