Last night I ended up reminiscing about skiing. My dad started teaching me when I was around 2. His theory was you're closer to the ground at that age and you fall all the time anyway. For my entire childhood we skied on the weekends at Sugarloaf, the only mountain on the East Coast of the U.S. that's above the tree level. There were no highways to get there, so it took what felt like an eternity to gat there (I think 3 hours) and often we'd make the drive in a snow storm to get that perfect snow the next day. It was usually 20 degrees when we headed out at 8 AM to get in our first run on pristine trails. We rented a condo right on the slopes, so we could ski out the door. By noon or 1 PM we were done and the trails were getting pretty skied off anyway. I remember the afternoons being just as magical, playing in the snowy woods, following frozen streams, playing cavemen in the culverts, sledding after the trails were closed for the day...we once had an epic wet cotton ball fight with Dad and that was the only time I ever had access to a video game (the other family renting had left it there). By high school we started going every other weekend and were renting a place that we had to drive to the slopes. It was a lot harder that we couldn't all quit when we wanted and my younger sister started becoming disinterested. By college the snow just wasn't falling, it wasn't worth it to get a season's pass and, well, we were busy. I haven't skied since, but I have fond memories of the time we did the iciest black diamond on the mountain by accident, the time it was 60 degrees and we skied in T-shirts and countless other slope side adventures.