I’m the guy around the house who always says that ski trips produce memories, but let me whisper a little something in your ear: I don’t remember a thing about my last ski trip.
Something maybe about bad grooming and gray, leaden skies. Quitting after a few runs. Perhaps after lunch. Hell, I have no idea.
But I remember everything — everything — about my first ski trip.
It was long ago, and I thought we were far away. In truth, we were 2½ hours from Boston. But it seemed as if we were in another world. And it is memories of that other world that have kept me a skier.