Posts Tagged ‘skiing’

I am me. I am a skier.

Skiing at Snow Summit 1985

Skiing with my dad at Snow Summit at 17 months old

Before anything else I was a skier. Before I was a sister. Before I was a strong willed, temper-tantrum throwing testarossa I was a skier. Before my parents got divorced. Before I moved to Summit County. Before I got married. Before I worked in the ski industry — I was a skier.

Above all else my identity is embedded in the smooth planks underneath my feet, the feel of fresh powder on my thighs, the sweat on the back of my neck at the end of a mogul run. I don’t lose myself when I’m skiing. I find who I am with each run I take. I don’t just ski. I am a skier.

My allegiance lies with the culture, the people, and the emotions intertwined with skiing. It’s the reason I didn’t move to Luxembourg to be with my husband’s family. It’s the reason I haven’t wavered in my career path. It’s the reason I get into each fight with my mom. I will not relinquish that part of my identity as it cannot be removed from my soul. I won’t say or do something that I feel isn’t in line with the soul of skiing.

It’s also the reason I get in trouble All. The. Time. My mouth spouts off constantly for “the good fight” — the progression of the sport, the promotion of the culture, and for women who are sick of taking second place to their boyfriends, brothers, or dads on the mountain. I mouth off because I think I have to. I mouth off because I can. I mouth off because I love skiing and

Morgan hiking Mirkwood at Monarch

Hiking Mirkwood Bowl at Monarch Mountain at 26

because every woman can find a place within herself where her ability to ski will transcend her inability to speak up. Skiing isn’t just for the bro/bras that huck themselves harder than anyone else or the ski film companies that glorify injury

through trailers depicting human-triggered avalanches. Skiing is for any woman that is looking for herself. Those guys are just looking to lose themselves, sometimes literally.

Among the neon gear, the avy beacons, and the ski town bars lies my soul, my identity and my first love. Yeah, some things can distract from it but others bring me right back to where I started.

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Why I married a skier

I never grew up saying my prince charming was going to be a skier. When I was little, I was really more concerned that he be ready to take me to a ball at a moments notice – glass slippers in hand.

Just like dreams, things change. I grew up, met a lot of different people, and eventually fell in love and not with a dream, but with a guy.

Stefan and Morgan Crested Butte

Stefan and I in Crested Butte on Valentine's Day

I met Stefan at a dude ranch in Wyoming when we were working there in college. He was a wrangler, I was a kids counselor. He had a beer,  and I was thirsty. It was simple, but it worked. I never put qualifications on the relationship like “he must be this tall,” or “he must be interested in skiing.” In Wyoming – those things were unimportant and I was much more concerned with how I could see him at the end of the summer.

Perhaps not caring about his skiing abilities then was a good thing. I just lucked out when that winter he came out to Colorado and skied me under the table. If you don’t meet at a ski resort or in the backcountry, or in a bar in Boulder for that matter, these things have a way of impressing you. Especially when your entire family are skiers and it runs through our blood like wine. Stefan was a skier and I was hooked.

A few years later, he asked me to marry him and I said yes. Not because he was a skier, but because he was incredible and incredible to me. We’ve been together

Stefan and Morgan in Telluride, New Years

My and my skier in Telluride on New Years Eve

for years and I know now that I married a skier because of what being a skier means.

He’s passionate. He’s driven. He’s smart. He’s curious. And he loves sharing these things with me. He’s all of these things because he’s himself, but he’s also all of these things through being a skier.

Now, I know that it wouldn’t have mattered if my prince charming couldn’t ski. Although, it might have been a rough patch if I would have had to teach him. The only balls I’m going to now are the ones that involve chairlifts and bloodies at the base – and it’s just how I like it.

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