GRANDPA ENERGY CR UX Jackson Hole Air Force’s legendary Captain Benny Wilson prepares for takeoff on an early morning in the tram building. Jackson Hole, WY. Photo: Greg Von Doersten Words KADE KRICHKO “WHERE’S GRANDPA?” I asked through the Thanksgiv-ing bustle. The answers came in shrugs and head shakes. Finally, grandma gave me something I could work with. “Oh, you know, he went to get his season pass again,” she said, rolling her eyes. The physical reaction probably had something to do with the fact that he was just past his 85th birthday. Or maybe it was that he hadn’t really skied in four years. Still, I wasn’t totally shocked. We’d all become accustomed to this annual pass office pilgrimage. Clicking into skis or not wasn’t necessarily the point. Whenever pressed, he’d always put it best: “Well, you never know.” Today he’ll still flash a contagious glint at the first thought of snow—the kind you’d expect from a fresh-out-of-high-school frother or a mountain-town-hustling stokebird, but probably not something you’d envision from a guy skiing straight K2s and car-rying an AARP card. Raised on a farm in Connecticut, he didn’t grow up skiing. Maybe that’s why it stuck—the gratifying memory of learning something later in life that many of us pick up as we’re learn-ing to walk. He skis with a wide stance, a little bent over in the front, consistent with the fall line but not dominating it. Instead of powder, he likes icy groomers and is rarely the first one down the hill. He fell in love with the sport as he was falling in love with my grandma when they were both students at the University of Maine. Later they got their kids on skis, then their grandkids. As my grandma and eventually my aunts and uncles started to pick and choose their ski days, grandpa remained constant. No matter what was going on outside, he was grabbing his leather-strapped poles and leading the charge. He built out a locker in a condo basement to make sure his stuff was always closer to the hill and rarely, if ever, stopped for lunch. Season pass or not, ski days started at 8 a.m. and ended when the liftie refused to let us on anymore. Six decades his junior, my cousins and I followed him like he was the Pied Piper. It was fine by us—we didn’t know any other way. I’m on the other side of the country now, but I still get pangs of guilt when I get to the resort at 10 a.m. or if I complain about the conditions. My sisters and I continue to ski with food in our pockets. I think about my grandpa often, about the joy he’s always gotten from connecting turns downhill, and from passing that gift along to us. The ski hill we grew up at used to offer free passes for skiers over 75. Eventually that number was raised to 80, then done away with entirely. I like to think that’s because of him. He doesn’t like slowing down, but it comes with the territory. He’s 90 now and even if he jumps up to watch the snowplow pass, he’s not always the first one out the door. He makes up for it by reading every word of this magazine. He thinks it’s amazing what people can do on skis these days, and finds that familiar youthful wonder in the images of snowy cliff bands and freeskiers in faraway lands. These days his locker holds three generations of ski gear. The K2s are in there somewhere, buried behind twin-tips and high school race skis. They’re in good condition, just like he left them. Maybe he’ll dig them out this year. You never know. 024 The Ski Journal
The Ski Journal Volume 16, Issue 2: Page 24
