🔗 Share this article

“Are you mad?” exclaimed Caroline the greengrocer happily when I mentioned I was going skiing. A sensible reply since recently I was shopping on supports after a hip replacement. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were even more worried: “How old are you? 80? I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll fall and break something.” My brother, Andrew, 86, chose it was safer not to tell anyone.

An Lifelong Wish

Over the past twenty years I had nurtured a half-buried wish to enjoy one more ski trip. One last taste of clear skies, chilly air and the thrill that comes with finding yourself still intact at the bottom of a snow-covered slope. My ability was limited, and it had been years since I last skied, but that wasn’t the point. Now in my eighties, I wanted to find out if my body could manage. And if I could do it, why not ask my sister, Kate, a member of our senior women’s club who support each other to join regular fitness events? Then I remembered that, during our younger days, Andrew came along on the first time I went skiing. Sixty-seven years had passed, but my brother was skilled back then, so he got an invitation as well. My friend Penny, who is remarkably youthful (67, so she says) that she’s almost an exception, was given permission to join and test her skills among the seniors and improve her language skills. We all made an effort to get as fit as possible, but none of us had skied for over forty years.

Choosing the Destination

The Tirol town of Seefeld, close to Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it has many snowy pastimes – assuming we’d survive our two-hour lesson on the opening day (admittedly, was all the downhill skiing we had planned) – and is happily without evening revelry. It attracts families rather than boisterous teens, and is quintessentially Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and wooden cabins. Our base was the friendly, family-run Hotel Helga and we tried various eateries nightly.

“We call this Kaiserwetter,” explained Janina, our leader when I commented we couldn’t believe our luck at waking each morning to cloudless skies, sunshine and lots of powder for the start of spring.

Everyone acted as if just to be excited, without any concern, as we took a bus to the ski area. It was crowded with children and adults with winter gear and full of life. I thought I caught the staff member helping us with our boot and ski hire showing skepticism at the situation.

I expected to slip as soon as I moved. However, I stayed on my feet. None of us did.

Our instructor Ulrich, who had been told we were older, grinned courageously as we trudged over. We were talking a bit too loudly, beaming widely, possibly aiming to put off the point when we had to step into the bindings. Inwardly, I believed I would tumble as soon as I moved. However, I remained upright. None of us did. Ulrich was very patient, allowing us sufficient time at every part of the tutorial to gain in confidence.

Today’s Ski Technology

Today’s skis are far simpler to handle, I realized – shorter, lighter and rounded at the front – than the long, cumbersome things from my memories of the 1960s that frequently caused me to slip from the lift. We assumed we’d be barred on a lift of any sort, so thought we’d have to painstakingly climb the slope and slide down, falling over in the process. That’s how it was in 1958. But here there was a marvelous modern invention, a moving walkway, or automated track, that conveyed us effortlessly to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was cluttered with fearless children. We stood out as the sole seniors.

Once the lesson ended, we remained upright throughout, had everyone performed adequate plow maneuvers and even an attempt at parallel skiing. We felt ecstatic. “That was just amazing!” said Andrew, who tends to understate.

Other Winter Activities

Could we have managed a entire week of winter sports? Possibly, but the range of options available in Seefeld was more attractive. There were hikes around different lakes, public transport allowing visits to absolutely charming hamlets, and the “cold-weather trek to Hämmermoosalm, a 4.6-kilometer hike with toboggan return”, as the brochure nonchalantly explained.

After viewing Olympic events, my sister and I knew all about sledding. You run behind, pushing the sled, then jump aboard and speed downward on your stomach at velocities comparable to racing cars. Our guide offered reassurance. Nothing to worry about: we would be seated on the toboggan and guide it using our feet. But we did worry. My brother opted out but we three plugged on.

A man in a scarlet onesie slid past yelling back about Kate.

As a 12-year-old it proved fatiguing pulling our family’s DIY toboggan up a local hill in the English county in our snowy childhood, and now in my eighties it felt draining hauling an admittedly lighter toboggan up the slope in thin mountain air (Hämmermoosalm, a traditional alpine mountain hut and farm, is at over 1,400 meters) for about three miles. I lagged behind, muttering to myself about being too old for this. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm