I wasn’t raised in a skiing family. Growing up in Philadelphia, I didn’t have many opportunities to ski. Twice — that was the total number of times I clicked into a pair of skis before moving to the mountains and one of those hardly counts. More on that later.

So, how does an East Coast city girl end up raising a skiing family? Well, read on and I’ll share a synopsis of my journey.

The East Coast Introduction to Skiing

The first time I went skiing was with Tatta, my Swiss grandmother. I’m not her grandaughter by blood, but she loved us like family and we adored her. Being born and raised in Switzerland, skiing ran deep in her veins and she wanted me to have the chance to experience it.

So, we headed to Blue Mountain. She took along another teenage boy who proudly declared himself an experienced skier. I made no such claims, and Tatta stuck with me while Mr. Expert went off and skied his own run. 

Memories of Skiing in Fear

What I remember from that run was — spoiler alert: It was one run — was that there were cliffs off on one side of the run with orange snow fences putting up a meager show of protection. I knew they’d do little to keep me contained and had visions of falling into the abyss below.

In addition to the possibility of death off the side of the run, there was the run itself that was far too steep for any first-timer to be navigating. 

Of course, I realize that if I went back to Blue Mountain today, I’d laugh at the disparity between reality and my memory. The vision in my memory is something akin to the Giant Slalom run in the Olympics.

Remember Bode Miller’s Super G crash? That’s where I saw my possibilities skiing down that green Blue Mountain run. 

Introduction to Ski Patrol

We got to the bottom of that run and over the loudspeaker, we hear, “Eda Jacoby, please report to the first aid station.” And Tatta looked at me and exclaimed, “Did they just say, Eda Jacoby?” Sure enough, they had. We walked over, and there laid Mr. Expert with his face wrapped in gauze.

He had a run-in with a ski lift post. I guess he wasn’t quite the experienced skier he claimed.

And that was that. We had to leave so Mr. Expert could get stitches.

Skiing With the Locals

I moved to Bozeman, Montana, when I was 21, and when you live in a ski town, you ski. If you don’t, you’ll really miss out on the local culture. In fact, for six months of the year, you probably won’t have anything to talk about as the conversation inevitably turns to and rests on skiing.

It didn’t take long before Rick, my husband or fiance (my memory is a little hazy as to when this event took place), got me into a pair of borrowed skis and up to Bridger Bowl.

A Bunny Hill Morning

By my fourth or fifth time down the bunny hill, I was really starting to enjoy myself and could definitely imagine spending the whole day carving some sweet lines on the nearly flat snow.

We stopped for lunch, and Rick and our friend Andrew decided I was doing so well that I would be ready for the South Bowl after we ate. 

In my youthful innocence, I trusted their expertise.

A Gnarly Afternoon on the South Bowl

Taking the lift up to the mid-mountain was no big deal, then we hopped on Pierre’s Knob, or as the locals call it, PK. And up we went. I lost my breath when we climbed a nearly 90-degree angle over Flippers. I could imagine only certain death.

We got off the lift without drama, and Andrew headed down to get ready to demonstrate a truly epic jump from Angel Falls. These words and places are etched permanently in my mind because the experience to follow was truly one of those emotional moments carved into my psyche for all time.

From the top of the South Bowl, I could see all of Montana. I could see into South Dakota. And I was almost certainly 10,000 vertical feet above the bottom of the run. So, being the adventurous go-getter that I am, I sat down and cried for a half-hour. 

I certainly didn’t imagine a future with a family of skiers.

Skiing the Tough Stuff

I begged Rick to let me walk down that mountain. He made me ski it. And I did — through tears. Andrew finally gave up on showing us his competition-worthy leap, skied down, took the lift back up, and checked in with us.

I reached the bottom of the South Bowl in 2 ½ hours. To give you perspective, I think it’s about a seven-minute run for me now. 

What I learned was that Rick is the most patient human being to walk the face of this earth. I also learned that I could do hard things.

Learning to Ski

Winters seem endless in Montana, and without a winter activity, they can really get depressing. Until gardening season, which begins in June, skiing is our activity. In fact, of all the fun things we get to do, skiing is my favorite. 

Skiing With Peers

One of the best things I did was get a season pass and ski with my friend from work. She was as novice a skier as I was, and together, we were a disaster. But we went. And we pushed each other. 

We fell. We had yard sales. We undoubtedly provided excellent free entertainment to those riding the lift. But we kept skiing.

Skiing With Experts

Rick is a great skier, and he always pushes me to up my game. The more confidence I gained and the better I skied, the more fun I had. 

For five fabulous years, Rick and I survived the winter with season passes to Bridger Bowl. And then we entered the next phase of life…skiing with the family.

Skiing As a Family

I will share more about each of our skiing offspring later, but for now, I’ll say this: Skiing with kids who can barely walk is more about the parents and less about the kids.

I’m not denying that some kids are more comfortable on skis than in shoes, and I’ve seen some tiny tykes tearing up the mountain. But those kids aren’t our kids. 

I think Loo Loo was our youngest skier at one and a half years old. She was miserable. I was miserable. It was not a win. 

Jellybean gave us the most memorable experience when she kicked her skis and boots off the lift into a creek below when she was two years old. 

After that, I realized I didn’t have to take two-year-olds skiing. And since Rick is the patient parent, he gets to teach our kids to ski once they’re five. Currently, he skies with our oldest three and I hang out with the two little ones. But I’m counting down the days until we all get season passes! Only two and a half years to go!

Skiing may not be your thing. You might not even live where it’s possible, but there’s something special about where you live. Why not find what that is and try it out with your family?