{meggie writes}: Ski Legs

Blackcomb Village

Up in the rugged and forested Coast Mountains of British Columbia, you'll find Whistler. It's a picturesque, multi-season resort town, though most people would be familiar with the snowy side of things.

Whistler was home to the winter Olympics in 2010, and its clearly a sweet destination for all activities involving boards strapped to ones feet.

I happen to like having boards strapped to my feet.

My brother and I grew up on skis, our parents throwing us at the mercy of the slopes at the ripe old age of two. We spent countless weekends crisscrossing hills, cutting our way through powder, and circumnavigating tree wells.

But as I reached the perilous 20-something years, my ski legs were forgotten. And let's face it, the sport isn't cheap.

Back in my pre-The Russian days, one lift ticket equaled two nights worth of drinks and taxi fares (give or take a round of shots). If it didn't involve jeans, liquor, and/or loud music, it didn't involve me. At least not on my precious weekends, when the city of Seattle and my girlfriends beckoned.

Of course, there were far more obvious and far less boozy reasons to talk myself out of skiing. Like getting up crazy early, throwing on a million sweaty layers, braving perilous roads, and weathering frigid temps. Oh, yeah - those reasons.

So, a decade came and went. But every year, when the snow began to accumulate in the mountains, and I'd hear outdoorsy people talk about pre-season training, I'd feel the twinge of guilt. Well, first I'd smirk, because seriously, besides Olympians, who trains for ski season? But then, after the smirking part, I'd feel guilty.

Then I met The Russian, and we bought a house. Then we moved to another house. Then we had kids.

Skiing was shelved, yet again.

But this year, my parents decided to resurrect this shared pastime of ours. They booked a condo and made plans. And I felt ready. Finally, after so long, I wanted to ski.

The nine of us packed our cars to the Crap-I-Can-Barely-See-Oncoming-Traffic brim and trekked north into Canada.

And what a trip. It snowed non-stop for five days. Non-stop. Five days.

Every morning, when we woke to the crystalline glint of snowflakes filtering down, I guarantee that my squeal was louder than all three of my kids' combined.

We sledded, we skied, we window shopped, we made snowmen, we went hot tubbing, we threw snowballs, we took walks, we sat and stared out the window at the ever-climbing drifts.

Authentic winter wonderland bliss.

On the real-world side, we wore our clothes way past their prime (coin operated laundry machine three floors down), we threw hissy-fits because our ski boots were too tight, we forgot half our gear back home, we got snippy with one another, and we locked ourselves in the bathroom for long, peaceful spans of time and claimed intestinal distress.

Because vacations aren't perfect and that's what happens when nine bodies are crammed into a small space for six days. You find a little peace wherever you can. Even if it involves hiding in the washroom (that's Canadian for bathroom, btw...I'm nearly fluent).

But none of that mattered because Whistler rocks. Every season is glorious up there, and if I had to pick, I'm not sure which would be my favorite.

This trip, though - this one goes in the memory cache. And that's saying something, because I have a truly terrible memory. Ask The Russian.

Even though Mister has been skiing for years now (his Papa has taught him), I skied with him for the very first time. We went down both green and blue runs, and we took the chair up to the top of both Whistler Mountain and Blackcomb Peak. He was amazing, and I was so proud.

Honeybee gave it a shot, too! Skiing between her Papa's legs or my legs, she freakin' owned that bunny hill. Owned it.

And, of course, all that snow. All that family time. All that wintry awesomeness.

None of us wanted to leave. But we did, and we're home now. Back to our snow-free lives.

I'm okay with it, though, because I've got my cache. And The Russian is already making plans to return next year.

Long story short: my ski legs are back, and they feel pretty good. Skiing's a sport I can share with my family now. Gotta love full circle endings. :)