The Ski Journal • Volume 16, Issue 1 • SUFFERING IS BETTER WITH MOM

“Think we should get an earlier start?” I asked as I pushed mole enchiladas around on my plate.

“I think we’ll be fine,” my mom said, shrugging. “We’re giving ourselves 12 full hours. How much harder can it be?”

With spring snow still blocking vehicle traffic, we were parked four miles from the trailhead on the south side of Mount Adams, WA. The May sun hung low in the sky and we chatted up skiers coming off the mountain, some in good spirits, some less so. “Start early,” a haggard-looking Seattleite said as he staggered by at 8 p.m.

Mount Adams in spring can be challenging—it’s a long approach and the snow up high melts quickly. Due to the road closure, the extra eight miles round trip would make for an 8,000-foot day with over 20 miles of travel on snow and dirt—the longest day either of us had done in a single push. Still, I knew if I could do it with anyone, it would be with her.

My parents raised me to be a skier, but it wasn’t until I was 17 that my mom and I discovered the magic of earning turns. Our entrance wasn’t the smoothest—there were tears (me), bonks (again, me), gear malfunctions and a fair amount of bootpacking in the skintrack—but learning to venture farther into the mountains together taught us to rely on each other in new ways. When I got hungry and tired, she was there with a peppermint patty. When she was scared, I reminded her about the decades she’s spent on snow, how I’d never be standing right here without her.

Tumbling out of the van at 4:45 a.m., it took us a few hours to reach the summer trailhead, our headlamps bobbing through the dark. Mom settled us into a steady but unhurried pace (a superpower honed by her years as a competitive endurance triathlete), and we reminisced about early days spent floundering on missions like this—wiping out on the skintrack, getting lost in whiteouts, and chasing powder. Each spring we seek out a big adventure in the mountains, nudging each other out of our comfort zones, growing together in a way I didn’t know mothers and daughters could. Part of that is accepting that I’m in for a long walk uphill. Some moms take their daughters shopping. Mine wants to chase snow. I tend to oblige her.

A quick summit hug flowed into a hurried transition, both of us eager to descend after over 10 hours of climbing. “What a slog,” I joked to mom, who looked, impossibly, no worse for the wear.

The Ski Journal - Volume 16, Issue 1

SUFFERING IS BETTER WITH MOM

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