🔗 Share this article

“Are you mad?” remarked a local shopkeeper happily when I told her I was going skiing. A sensible reply since just a while back I was seen on crutches following a joint operation. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were even more worried: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll fall and break something.” Andrew, my 86-year-old brother, opted it was wiser not to tell anyone.

A Hidden Desire

Over the past twenty years I had nurtured a quiet longing to undertake another skiing holiday. A final fix of clear skies, crisp atmosphere and the exhilaration that accompanies making it down safely at the end of a snowy run. I wasn’t very skilled, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that didn’t matter. As an octogenarian, I felt compelled to check if I could still do it. And if I could do it, how about inviting my sister, Kate, a member of our senior women’s club who encourage each other to join regular fitness events? Then I remembered that, as teenagers, my brother had accompanied me on my initial winter sports trip. Sixty-seven years had passed, but Andrew had some talent, so I included him in the plans. Penny, a friend, who is so absurdly young (67, so she says) that she barely qualifies, was also allowed to come and test her skills among the seniors and brush up on German. Everyone tried hard to get as fit as possible, but not one had been on skis for over forty years.

Choosing the Destination

The Tirol town of Seefeld, close to Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it provides diverse cold-weather pursuits – provided we endured our two-hour lesson on the opening day (admittedly, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is wonderfully free of evening revelry. It attracts families rather than boisterous teens, and is characteristically Austrian, with traditional bell towers and wooden cabins. Our base was the friendly, family-run a charming inn and we tried various eateries nightly.

“It’s known as Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I noted we couldn’t believe our luck at rising every day to clear blue skies, sunshine and abundant snowfall for early March.

We were all pretending just to be eager, without any concern, as we took a bus to the slopes. It was full of children and adults with winter gear and radiating energy. I thought I caught the young man helping us with our boot and ski hire rolling his eyes at the challenge.

I was sure I’d fall over immediately upon setting off. Yet I remained upright. None of us did.

Ulrich, our teacher, who had been told we were older, beamed valiantly as we stomped towards him. We were talking a bit too loudly, smiling too broadly, possibly aiming to put off the time when we had to step into the bindings. Inwardly, I was sure I’d take a spill immediately upon starting. But I didn’t. No one else fell either. Ulrich remained calm, providing ample opportunity at each step of the instruction to become more confident.

Today’s Ski Technology

Current ski equipment is more user-friendly, I discovered – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards from my memories of the 1960s that often led to lift mishaps. We assumed we’d be barred on a lift of any sort, so assumed we would painstakingly climb the slope and slide down, tumbling during the descent. That’s how it was in 1958. Yet there existed a wonderful new device, a “travelator”, or moving walkway, that transported us easily to the peak of the novice run, which was cluttered with fearless children. We were the only adults.

Once the lesson ended, we remained upright throughout, had all managed some decent snowplough turns and even a sort of parallel turn. We were euphoric. “It was truly wonderful!” exclaimed Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.

Additional Adventures

Could we have managed a whole week of skiing? Possibly, but the diverse pursuits available in Seefeld was more attractive. We could go walking around several bodies of water, public transport allowing visits to incredibly scenic towns, and the “snowy walk to the alpine hut, 2.9 miles followed by sled descent”, as the guidebook briefly mentioned.

After viewing Olympic events, my sister and I were aware of sledding techniques. You run behind, pushing the sled, then leap on and hurtle down on your belly at speeds rivalling a Formula One car. Our guide offered reassurance. No cause for concern: we would be seated on the toboggan and guide it using our feet. However, we were nervous. My brother opted out but the rest of us continued.

A fellow in a red jumpsuit slid past calling out about Kate.

As a 12-year-old it proved fatiguing hauling my father’s homemade toboggan up Gold Hill common in the rural area in our childhood winters, and now in my eighties it was strenuous dragging a reduced-weight toboggan up the slope in high-altitude atmosphere (the alpine hut, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at over 1,400 meters) for about three miles. I lagged behind, muttering to myself about my age being a hindrance. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm