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 five years old—on his first ski trip. I wanted to plant the same seed my father had planted in me when I was around his age. Fast forward three years to last weekend, and it looks like I'm on the right track. He always insisted that I not put him in a ski school but instead teach him myself, just as my father had taught me back in the day. I agreed, reasoning that even if he didn't learn at the same pace, we’d have a great time together, strengthening our father-son bond. I've skied enough in my life that I don’t mind missing another crazy run down the slope alone. Seeing him nail his turns and experiment with his first "jumps" gives me far more joy than that.

Continuing the family tradition, we picked nice spots to have some snacks, reflect on the day so far, and just talk about the beauty of the mountains and how we were feeling in the moment. I'm trying to practice basic mindfulness techniques with him, which will hopefully come in handy later in life. Just staring at the strangely shaped clouds, running our eyes along the sharp edges of the mountain ridge, or carefully describing the colors of a sunset are some examples.

On our third and final day, we went to a nearby resort where two of his classmates were also spending the weekend. He had been looking forward to it very much. He wanted to showcase his skills and thought he was going to be the fastest and most daring of the group. Unfortunately, it turned out that both kids had been attending ski school for years and ended up leaving him in third place as they sped down the slopes. I think he took it well—even though he seemed a little disappointed, sharing the adventure with his school buddies outweighed his earlier expectations. Also, the fact that he could keep up with them gave me a sense of pride on two levels: first, because he did, and second, because it looks like I managed to give him a solid enough foundation to compete with them, even though I'm not a ski instructor by any means.

On the drive home, I told him that it's not about how fast you go but how confident you are in your own skills and how much you enjoy the process. It's true for skiing just as much as it is for life.