Weekend Ski Trip to the Austrian Mountains
Ever since I was a small child, my parents used to take me skiing every winter. We usually spent at least a week, sometimes two, in the French Alps each year, doing nothing but skiing. My father was always the first one in line in the morning and the last one the ski patrols urged to ski down the mountain at the end of the day. He didn't even bother visiting a mountain hut for lunch—he carried all his food in his backpack, and we ate on the lifts, sitting down at a scenic spot on some rock, or simply on our skis, enjoying our sandwiches and hot tea from the thermos. When I reached my late teens, I started inviting some friends along, and after a few years—as is natural—I ditched my parents and focused on organizing these trips for myself and a handful of good buddies. We had crazy and amazing times, some of them more responsible than others. Thank God no one ever got injured or ran into trouble. The next stage of this evolution began three years ago when I first took my son—then fi...