Seasoned Skiers by Kate Emery General

The 1968 Winter Olympics were a defining moment for my brothers and me. At fourteen, twelve, and nine years old, we were already seasoned skiers, and that winter we were utterly transfixed by the downhill events. In particular, we were glued to Jean-Claude Killy. Watching him race was electric, his confidence, precision, and dominance captured our imaginations instantly. From that moment on, we were devoted fans.

After the Olympics, Killy seemed to be everywhere. He was featured in ski magazines for months, even years, afterward, and we read every article we could find. Those glossy pages weren’t just stories about an athlete; they were windows into a world we wanted to belong to. Skiing was no longer just something we did, it became part of our identity.

1968 was also the first year we became truly aware of ski equipment brands and labels. Skiing was entering a new era, and we felt it. My older brother received Jean-Claude Killy’s signature Head skis for his birthday, and he treated them with reverence. He waxed them carefully, stored them properly, and skied them with pride. Those skis represented something bigger than gear; they were a tangible connection to excellence.

Our own skiing beginnings were far humbler. Our starter equipment came straight from my mother. At five years old, I skied in her leather boots, wool ski pants, and on her wooden skis. At the time, it never occurred to me to feel embarrassed. That was simply what we had, and it was enough. As we grew older and more skilled, our equipment evolved too, becoming more modern and state-of-the-art. I still remember how much I loved my red, white, and blue K2 skis, bold, patriotic, and full of promise.

We were always well dressed for the cold. Warm parkas and thick sweaters were essential, and Gerry down coats were our favorites. They were practical, but also a status symbol of sorts on the slopes. Remarkably, I still have my rainbow-striped Gerry jacket. It’s a little worn now, but it holds decades of memories in its seams.

Skiing in Wyoming had a distinctly different feel from skiing in Colorado. On trips to Steamboat, I was fascinated by the local girl skiers. They had a style all their own: braided hair, dangling earrings, and jeans instead of traditional ski pants. It was effortlessly cool and a little rebellious. I adopted that hippie-girl look as my own, grateful that my parents allowed me to get my ears pierced for my twelfth birthday. Everyone seemed to give me earrings that year, my favorites were a pair of love knot posts and a pair of dangly daisies.

Our ski trips with my father were special in their own quiet way. He was content spending time in the warming hut, sipping something hot and chatting with other parents while we tore up the mountain. Knowing he was there, waiting, watching, warming up, gave us a sense of freedom and security all at once.

One spring ski trip stands out vividly in my memory. My older brother decided to lead my younger brother and me on what he promised would be a “shortcut” down the mountain. As we veered off the familiar trail, I ignored the avalanche warning signs posted along the way. The snow was heavy and wet from the spring thaw, and as we descended, the terrain became increasingly treacherous.

Near the bottom of the slope, we encountered a creek with visible, running water. We had to sidestep carefully across a rocky creek bed, our skis slipping and sticking as mud and slush coated our boots, pants, and gear. We were sweating, tired, and questioning our brother’s definition of a shortcut. After a long stretch of walking, we finally emerged behind our hotel, only to realize we still had a considerable distance to walk to reach the ski lodge and meet our dad. It was anything but a shortcut, but it became one of those stories that lives on, retold with laughter and disbelief.

Today, I still enjoy watching Olympic skiing, though the sport has changed dramatically over the years. The equipment is faster and the courses more extreme. Whenever I watch the Olympics, I’m reminded of my own early accomplishments, small in the world of elite competition, but enormous to a child learning to ski.

I can still feel the pride of riding the rope tow all the way to the top of the bunny hill, gripping tight, trying not to fall, and feeling like I had conquered something serious just by making it to the top without losing my balance.

And I remember jumping from a small mogul on Dreadnaught, the toughest run at our local ski area. That jump wasn’t anything like what the Olympic skiers do now, but to me, it was daring. It was thrilling. It was proof that I belonged on the mountain.

Watching the best skiers in the world still brings me right back to the beginning: cold air, fast turns, brave little risks, and the kind of joy that only comes from flying downhill under your own power.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.