“That’s craziness!” exclaimed Caroline the greengrocer cheerfully when I told her I was going skiing. A sensible reply since just a while back I was seen on crutches following a hip replacement. 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 have an accident and hurt yourself.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, chose it was safer not to tell anyone.
An Enduring Wish
For at least two decades I had nurtured a quiet longing to enjoy a final winter sports adventure. A concluding dose of clear skies, crisp atmosphere and the thrill that comes with finding yourself still intact at the end of a snowy run. I wasn’t very skilled, and decades had passed since my last ski outing, but that was irrelevant. Now in my eighties, I wanted to find out if I was still capable. Should I succeed, why not ask my sister, Kate, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who motivate one another to do parkrun each week? I recalled that, during our younger days, Andrew came along on my initial winter sports trip. Sixty-seven years had passed, but my brother was skilled back then, so I included him in the plans. A companion named Penny, who is surprisingly spry (claiming to be 67) that she doesn’t really count, was given permission to join and try her luck with the oldies and practise her German. Everyone tried hard to enhance our fitness levels, but not one had been on skis for four decades or more.
Choosing the Destination
Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was the spot we selected, as it has many snowy pastimes – assuming we’d survive our brief skiing instruction on the first day (admittedly, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is blissfully lacking in evening revelry. Families frequent it rather than boisterous teens, and is quintessentially Austrian, with traditional bell towers and wooden cabins. Our accommodation was the friendly, family-run Hotel Helga and we dined somewhere new every night.
“We call this Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I noted we couldn’t believe our luck at rising every day to clear blue skies, sunshine and lots of powder for early March.
We were all pretending just to be eager, completely unafraid, as we boarded a shuttle to the winter sports zone. It was packed with young people and families with winter gear and glowing with vitality. I thought I caught the assistant helping us with our boot and ski hire showing skepticism at the challenge.
I expected to slip as soon as I moved. Yet I remained upright. None of us did.
The instructor, Ulrich, who had been informed about our senior status, grinned courageously as we walked up. Our voices were somewhat raised, grinning excessively, perhaps trying to postpone the moment when we had to step into the bindings. Inside, I felt certain I’d take a spill the instant I began. But I didn’t. Everyone else stayed up too. Ulrich was very patient, allowing us sufficient time at every part of the tutorial to become more confident.
Contemporary Winter Sports
Today’s skis are far simpler to handle, I discovered – reduced in length, weight and featuring shaped ends – than the long, cumbersome things from my memories of the 1960s that always made me fall off the ski lift. We understood we wouldn’t be permitted on a any type of cable car, so expected to laboriously herringbone up the hill and ski down, tumbling during the descent. That was the method back in 1958. However, we found a wonderful new device, a moving walkway, or moving walkway, that conveyed us effortlessly to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was crowded with daring youngsters. We were the only adults.
After 120 minutes, we hadn’t even fallen, had each executed reasonable wedge turns and even a sort of parallel turn. We felt ecstatic. “It was truly wonderful!” remarked Andrew, who tends to understate.
Beyond the Slopes
Might we have endured a entire week of winter sports? Maybe, but the range of options Seefeld offered was more enticing. There were hikes around several bodies of water, buses giving us access to absolutely charming hamlets, and the “cold-weather trek to Hämmermoosalm, 2.9 miles followed by sled descent”, as the information pack casually described it.
Being familiar with winter sports, my sister and I understood tobogganing. You dash after it, shoving the toboggan, then hop on and race down on your belly at velocities comparable to racing cars. Janina was reassuring. Nothing to worry about: we’d sit on the sled and guide it using our feet. However, we were nervous. Andrew chose not to participate but the rest of us continued.
Someone wearing crimson overalls slid past shouting something over his shoulder about Kate.
During my childhood it proved fatiguing dragging Dad’s handcrafted sled up a local hill in Buckinghamshire in our snowy childhood, and now in my eighties it was strenuous pulling a somewhat lighter sled ascending in high-altitude atmosphere (the alpine hut, a traditional alpine mountain hut and farm, is at 1,410 meters) for about three miles. I lagged behind, grumbling under my breath about being too old for this. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm
