Once man and nature have conjured up winter, ski areas begin to set opening dates. Now we can plan our first ski day. Before bedtime, we pile up all of the necessary gear, like soldiers preparing for battle. It doesn't matter if the first day is in October or in December, the size of the pile remains the same, for we know that the mountains can hold unexpected surprises even on the mildest of days. As dawn arrives on the designated day, we arise early and stumble about trying to remember old patterns of how to dress and what to pack. We plan a delicious lunch for the cooler, double check our gear, and off we go. At the mountain, we are awestruck by the winter wonderland into which we have stumbled. More often than not, the winteriness of the ski slope on this first day is in sharp contrast to the brown fall landscape that we can see everywhere but on the actual trails. Only here, winter has been magically imprinted on the land. The snow is cold and crunchy, the air chilly on our still tan faces, and the whisper of winter hiding just around the corner can be heard if we listen very carefully.
The day ends and we return home,where one last part of the ritual remains. On the evening of the first ski day, we put up the "ski tree" - a small Christmas tree given to me long ago by a student. We bring it out on the first ski day, and it remains on our mantle until the last day that our skis meet the snow. Some years it has been out from early October until May, causing raised eyebrows by friends who don't know about our tradition.
We end the day by a crackling fire, sipping a glass of wine, warming tired muscles, and basking in the glow of three or four perfect ski runs. Another ski season has begun.
