My first time skiing in two years—three years? more?—and we almost didn't make it. Squalls closed I-5 at disparate locations; elsewhere rain fell hard, and higher up, it thickened into fat flakes that blocked the view. I suppose we didn't turn back because it seemed more difficult than just continuing. As it turned out, all that stuff the weather pulled was not much where we were going, the snow accumulating friendly—soft and tacky. Besides, it stopped just after we got out of the car.

First thing I hate about skiing: The gear. Carrying the boots, skis, and poles is just like if you had to cut off your feet and hands and haul them around with you. The stuff is a total hindrance unless it is clamped on.

We carried the crap up the hill to the lodge first, me forgetting what it is like and cursing out of breath much of the way.

Second thing I hate about skiing: The Scene. The lodge was packed with teenagers. I swear more types of people ski, that it isn't just a teenage thing. Maybe it was just this night. Whatever the case, the lodge was a giant teenage singles scene, everyone posturing like everyone else was checking them out. We had 14-year-old girls wearing tank tops, puffy snowboarding pants, and black eyeliner a la Avril Lavigne. The boys stood around in oversized T-shirts, lanky and proud, affecting the SportPro.

This isn't new. I remember doing this very thing when I was 15, wearing the thinnest sweater I had, bigass hoop earrings, and the full application of Clinique. Of course, I froze my ass off and had to spend hours in the lodge warming up, just like these kids. The scene is just a shock when you've been away from it so long, are so far removed from it.

On the way to the lift, I told Pam that when I was a teenager I saw some adults in clothes and gear from the 70s and vowed that I'd never let myself look so out-of-date. But here I am, skiing with poles from 1988, boots from 1992, and newish skis I bought used three years ago. I wear my climbing parka, some wacky moth-eaten hat, my climbing overmits from 1988 (holy crap!) and the StayPuft ski pants I bought in Itaewon. Fortunately, I no longer give a shit what anybody thinks.

First time up, everything felt wobbly. I couldn't figure how to work things. On the lift, it was a struggle to keep hold of everything well enough and short enough to get the flask of peach schnapps out of my pocket, unscrewed, upended, handed to Pam, and back into the pocket before the ride ended. On the snow, I could only make stem christies, what the hell? The kids on the boards pushed past. The next run, slow, but more fluid. What a disappointment. I'd look over to jumps I'd taken in years past and they looked scary. Scary! What's that about? I remembered memorizing the sequence of jumps and hitting them all on the way down, every bump I could find. I remembered night-skiing off in the woods with that mildly wild pack of boys from my dorm. Sometimes we got hurt, but none of us badly. Mostly those crashes were the close calls that I now call wisdom.

So, I became determined to learn it all back. We didn't take a break, but crammed in as many runs as we could before closing.

What I love about skiing: The clouds left us the stars and the full moon. The mountain sides glowed, and we could see them alive with skiers and clusters of snowboarders barking and dragging themselves around like seals. Each run was smoother and more exhilarating than the last. I remembered that if you're doing it right, you turn only from the waist, bending and extending your knees. The effort heats you up, wears you out.

The best was the finish on Big Chief: long, steep, and fast. I held it parallel for longer stretches, ski tips mostly pointed downhill, the only limitation my fear of the speed and of what the fall from it would feel like.

I could go faster and I could control it if I could release the fear and lean into the slope. What happens is, I catch myself leaning back slightly—that's how I know I'm afraid and not just exhilarated. So, I'm working on that. I'm ready to go again, ready for the little jumps, bumps next time. Maybe I could get a helmet? By the end of the season, I'd like to do some of those diamond-level mogul fields. When I go to sleep at night now, I imagine bouncing over them.