You probably guessed that there’s actually more to this Colorado ski odyssey than just “I love to ski.” And you’re right. In the pie piece of my life labeled “recreation,” I like to believe I operate somewhere in the fringe of adventure. Don’t get me wrong, I’d never call myself an adventurer. I’m not scouring Snake Island for hidden loot or hiking the length of the Amazon River or charting a course to the South Pole. But I have been scuba diving with bull sharks and backpacking along the Colorado Trail for more miles than are comfortable.
I’ve also taken a couple pretty serious survival courses, and in addition to the fire-making, shelter-building, and map-reading skills I learned, I discovered — oh, on about day four — that I simply don’t like to be away from, and out of contact with, Michelle and the boys for long stretches of time.
So, would I like to climb Everest? Hell yeah. Do I want to be gone for as long as that expedition would take? Fuck no.
It’s a struggle, because I’m no fan of a drop-the-kids-off-at-school-work-9-to-5-have-wine-on-the-weekends-with-dinner-at-some-faceless-suburban-restaurant existence either. Can’t do it.
This ski thing provides the foundation for a family adventure. We’re not circumnavigating the globe in a sailboat or crossing the Darién Gap, but we are setting out to accomplish something beyond the realm of ordinary. And when it comes down to it, that’s where I want to operate.