“Are you insane?” stated the vegetable seller brightly when I mentioned my ski trip plans. An expected response since recently I was shopping on crutches due to a hip surgery. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were more concerned: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a wise plan. You’ll take a tumble and get injured.” My brother, Andrew, 86, opted it was wiser not to tell a soul.
An Persistent Wish
For at least two decades I’d had a half-buried wish to enjoy another skiing holiday. A concluding dose of clear skies, frosty air and the thrill that accompanies making it down safely at the bottom of a snow-covered slope. I wasn’t very skilled, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that was irrelevant. As an octogenarian, I felt compelled to check if I could still do it. Should I succeed, why not ask Kate, my sister, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who encourage each other to do parkrun each week? Then I remembered that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on my initial winter sports trip. That was 67 years ago, but Andrew had some talent, so he got an invitation as well. Penny, a friend, who is surprisingly spry (67, so she says) that she doesn’t really count, was given permission to join and venture out with the elders and practise her German. Each of us worked to become more physically prepared, but not one had been on skis for over forty years.
Picking the Location
Seefeld, located in the Tirol region, was where we decided to go, as it provides diverse cold-weather pursuits – provided we endured our brief skiing instruction on the first day (admittedly, was all the downhill skiing we had planned) – and is happily without après-ski malarky. It draws in family groups rather than rowdy youth, and is quintessentially Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and chalet-type houses. Our accommodation was the cozy, independently owned Hotel Helga and we ate at a different restaurant each evening.
“We call this Kaiserwetter,” explained Janina, our leader when I remarked it seemed too good to be true at waking each morning to clear blue skies, pleasant rays and lots of powder for the start of spring.
We feigned just to be eager, not worried at all, as we hopped on a coach to the slopes. It was packed with children and adults carrying skis and glowing with vitality. It seemed the assistant getting our ski gear looking doubtful at our undertaking.
I was sure I’d fall over the moment I started. Yet I remained upright. None of us did.
The instructor, Ulrich, who had been told we were older, grinned courageously as we trudged over. We chatted rather noisily, beaming widely, possibly aiming to put off the moment when we had to clamp our feet on to the skis. Privately, I felt certain I’d take a spill the instant I began. Yet I didn’t. No one else fell either. Our instructor showed great patience, allowing us sufficient time at each stage of the lesson to become more confident.
Contemporary Winter Sports
Today’s skis are far simpler to handle, I found out – reduced in length, weight and featuring shaped ends – than the long, cumbersome things I recalled from the sixties that frequently caused me to slip from the lift. We assumed we’d be barred on a lift of any sort, so assumed we would painstakingly climb the slope and ski down, falling over in the process. It worked like that in the fifties. However, we found a fantastic contemporary contraption, a moving walkway, or automated track, that carried us smoothly to the top of the gentle beginners’ slope, which was cluttered with fearless children. No other grown-ups were present.
After 120 minutes, we remained upright throughout, had each executed reasonable wedge turns and even a sort of parallel turn. We were overjoyed. “That was absolutely incredible!” exclaimed Andrew, who isn’t given to hyperbole.
Additional Adventures
Could we have managed a whole week of skiing? Maybe, but the diverse pursuits Seefeld offered was more attractive. There were hikes around several bodies of water, public transport allowing visits to incredibly scenic towns, and the “winter hike to the Hämmermoosalm, 4.6km (and sled back down)”, as the information pack casually described it.
After viewing Olympic events, my sister and I knew all about sledding. You run behind, pushing the sled, then jump aboard and speed downward on your belly at paces matching fast vehicles. Our guide offered reassurance. Nothing to worry about: we would be seated on the toboggan and guide it using our feet. Yet we remained apprehensive. Andrew decided it wasn’t for him but we others persevered.
A fellow in a red jumpsuit zoomed past shouting something over his shoulder regarding my sister.
As a 12-year-old it was exhausting pulling our family’s DIY toboggan up a snowy incline in the English county in our snowy childhood, and now in my eighties it was strenuous pulling a somewhat lighter sled ascending in thin mountain air (Hämmermoosalm, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at 1,410 metres) for about three miles. I trailed the others, muttering to myself about senior limitations. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm
