Dear Daddy

Remember the time you took me up to Mammoth for the first time? You and Mom got stuck in a snowstorm and were rescued by sheriffs who gave you a bed in the local jail. Remember the story you told me about how being a tiny baby I almost blew away in the basket? Remember you and Mom's matching gold down jackets and teaching Paul and I how ski when I was 5? I'll never forget your cavalier attitude about the mountain and you bringing us up a random chairlift for the very first time, getting to the top and you saying in your thick Hungarian accent, "OK, ski down now." We had no idea what to do, but we sure tried. We figured out how to snowplow as best we could to keep from going straight down the hill. I'll never forget getting to the bottom, seeing flat below and letting my skis go straight and feeling what seemed like bone shattering speed, mixed with a sinful thrill that ended in a spectacular crash at Mom's feet . I"ll never forget my first Sears "Schuss Jr." wooden skis with bear trap bindings and leather latch boots that I somehow split and you fixed with a drill, screws and a flat metal brace. I wish I still had them -- who knew they'd be little trophies of my grownup sickness for skiing; alas they were probably sold at one of our 1970's Valley garage sales.

Daddy, long after you've gone to the ski slopes in the sky, I've finally tasted foreign snow. Although I'd hoped it would be in the Alps where your legendary stories still haunt me, it was in Chile. I skied my little heart out on some of the softest, most legendary snow I've ever witnessed. How my heart swelled with joy that is beyond words. I thought of you often this past week, as I heard languages from all over the world and whoops of happiness of others finding their virgin lines in the powder over the hill from me. Though I've experienced the "champagne powder" of the US West many times, there was something about this place that marked my brain in an indelible way. I laughed uncontrollably as I floated through the snow with every turn shooting puffs of snow into my face! There were times that the snow actually choked me as I skied. I had to stop to get a breath and then fall down into the fluff giggling at myself and this unbelievable occasion.

I want to thank you for introducing me to this incredible experience Daddy; because, truly, I cannot tell you of one thing on this earth that makes me happier, more whole, more joyous. How strange it is that your little Southern California girl became such a skier; I am sure that you never dreamed it.

With much love,

Your Daughter

The Holy Grail of Skiing...

Is on the back bowls of Valle Nevado in Chile at 3670 meters high (12,000 feet) in the Valley of the Incas. There you will find three pomas, vertical drops of 1600+, virgin dry snow and NO ONE. While I rode the poma for an unGodly 10 minute yank up the hill, opal clouds hovered around the sun and the wind blew. When I got to the top, I kicked over the edge into the softest, most heavenly steep making my own tracks and racing as fast as I could to cover the massive mounds of snow without so much as a rock, tree or anything to stop me. Arriving at the bottom, I found a few Chilean snowboarders who summoned me to go ahead onto the poma, but all I could do was stick out my tongue from my panting to let them know I needed a few seconds to recover from all-out barrel down the hill. I went up again and found another run, a bit gentler with even better snow.....4 inches of perfectly dry champagne powder and couldn't contain my joy, whooping at the top of my lungs all the way down. I found another poma, this time, another perfect hill called Cascade with no one in sight. I skied 10 runs up and down those valleys until I couldn't stand up anymore and finally headed to midchalet on the populated front of the mountain. I met a ski patroller from New York, Elk Mountain, who was having as much fun as I was. Great to meet someone with as much passion for ski adventures; he came by his lone self all the way here.

I"m sorry to sound like the valley girl I am, but OH MY GOD.

CHILEAN SKI DREAM

The sun just came over the Andes; I've been watching a cloud parade of pink lit Chilean phiffs float across the jagged top edge. The Andes. Wow. This has always been a place that felt daunting, something out of National Geographic that you gawk at in amazement, never thinking you'd actually BE there. But alas, I am.



I came here to ski. I can't help it. I love it more than anything and my insatiable drive to make turns on any hill is now bringing me beyond the Rockies and Sierras. The snow is really, really soft. Even though we have warm weather and big blue skies it stays perfectly soft, no ice, no hard pack. Yesterday I found my way to one of the top ridges and traversed it alone, finding tracks to get to a hill that looked particularily tasty. Little downhills in perfect non crusted fluff. Little hikes. I was the ONLY one around. I followed a few tracks and finally got to this hill that just blew my mind. Huge, bald mountain without a tree, gully or cliff in sight. I couldn't make a wrong turn. I got to the bottom, breathless and got in line for the t-bar up the hill I was looking for. I listened to all the guys carrying on in Spanish. I got to the front and was turned away. This hill goes to Colorado; another ski resort over the hill for which I didn't have a ticket.

I moped my way out of line through a single track, around a rock and voila, there below me was virgin snow as far as I could see. I so badly wanted to just barrel down it, but the only thing below was the road and a hitchhike back up to Valle Nevado. Instead I transversed back to the groomed, exceedingly worried about an avalanche. My tracks were cutting a new line in virgin, which must be 30 feet deep here. It's been hot and cold, hot and cold the past few days. I made it back and skied for the rest of the day on the groomed. Tomorrow, I get a ticket for the OTHER hills around us and will go on an adventure over the hill.