A Postcard from Banff

I’ve been skiing since I was 10 years old, but I’m never sure if I can ski. I’ve made it through the Back Bowl of Vail and down the slopes of Tahoe and Jackson Hole. I even placed third in a skiing competition. (I was in middle school at the easy-peasy Camelback Resort in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains. But still. They gave me a medal.)

I traveled to Banff to cover the area’s growing culinary and cocktail scene, but I wanted to ski. I hadn’t buckled up a pair of Salomons since my last trip to Stratton, Vermont, which I thought was a handful of years ago. No. A flick through my socials corrected me. It was a decade ago.

Could I do this anymore?

Banff Sunshine Village. Photo courtesy of the property.

I’m no athlete. I was always picked last for the team in gym class. This never felt mean or spiteful, like some dramatic scene in a John Hughes movie. We kids collectively understood that I should be the last draft. I agreed. I wasn’t coordinated. I couldn’t throw, I didn’t want to catch. And, wait, what were the rules again?

My innate lack of sporting skill never stopped me from trying. I joined cross-country teams and softball leagues. My dad tried to teach me basketball. Disastrous, all of it. In skiing, though, I discovered some level of athleticism. I felt comfortable on the mountain, confident even.

I like the vibe. I like the ski towns. I even like the gear. I don’t want to fumble for an excuse to get out of this sport. I want to stay and get better.

I’m a sturdy intermediate on a good day. A blue cruiser does me just fine. And here in Banff, western Canada, I’m finding my groove. Once I was back on the slopes last week (after a moment of getting my footing), I realized not only could I do it, but I could do it pretty well. I also realized that I might just love a sport — this sport.

No matter how much time passes, how old we get, how much focus we need to conjure the basics once again, the mountains will be there reminding me, You can do this.