The gene factor.

In order to look at why skiing rings such a lovely feeling in the bones, for me in particular, I will look to my genetic roots. My mother and father met skiing at Boston Mills/ Brandywine Ski Resort (Ohio), the same place I learned how to ski (we will get back to that later).

I enjoy telling people the story of how my mother (the cautious skier) initially turned down my father (the daredevil skier) after he asked her if she would like to join him for a hot cocoa in the lodge. My mother's perspective is classic, "He would race down the hill to show off..." or something to that effect. Well, she eventually gave in and said yes since they got married, had my brother, and then ten years later had me. 

Below is the happy skiing couple caricature from my parent's 10 year anniversary.

My parents and brother went on many skiing adventures in the states and internationally. My brother occasionally competed in junior races in Vail, but mostly skied recreationally. I have a collection of his retro Vail, CO t-shirts he acquired when he was a teenager.  

The famous saying, "A family who skis together stays together," seems to speak the truth more times than none, however, it was not the case with my family. A few years after I was born, my parents divorced and I did not get on skis until I was maybe 10 years old. My Uncle Larry (Mom's older brother) taught me how to ski at good ole Boston Mills. I vividly remember how much trouble I had, but not with the actual skiing part. No, it was the rope tow I couldn't get a handle on, literally. Once I proved worthy of control and snowplow, I advanced to the chair lift and the rest is history. 

After taking a hefty ski sabbatical, I am now reclaiming my love of the sport and lifestyle which is rooted in more ways than just a love of majestic snow mountain beauty. It's a gene thing.