By Marilyn Shapiro
My husband Larry and I just returned to our Florida home from an early November trip to Frisco, Colorado.
Marilyn Shapiro, right, with Sam and Julie, her son and daughter-in-law, in Frisco.
While we were there, the weather was amazing. Outside of freezing rain that first day, we enjoyed sunny skies and relatively warm temperatures. We left a day before snow and colder temperatures were expected.
The impending winter weather reminded me of a 2014 winter trip to Colorado. It seemed like everything was in place. Clothes? Check. Skis and poles? Check. Beautiful snow cover? Check. Perfect temperature? Check. Ability to cross country ski? Zippo!
Our daughter Julie had moved to the mountains of Colorado after college for a “one year” teaching position at a science school near Vail. Her one-year position, however, extended to three years, and she found that not only that she loved the mountains but also Sam. They were married and purchased a home in Frisco.
Larry and I visited Julie and Sam at least once a year. For several years, we always planned on being in Frisco on July 4.
As far as the weather, every trip to Frisco had been delightful, as summers in the mountains are something out of Johanna Spyri’s Heidi: mild temperatures during the day, cool temperatures at night, and lots of blue skies. Julie and Sam planned hikes and walks for us to savor the Frisco summer.
Julie and Sam had also embraced the Colorado winter life style, including both cross country and downhill skiing, and had encouraged us to visit them during the snow season.
For many years, we demurred, first because of our jobs and more recently because Larry and I had preferred to spend our winter months getting away from snow and cold, not heading in the opposite direction to 9,000 feet and more snow and cold. Larry, especially found the cold difficult to handle. I would go to the mountains in the winter, even if Larry couldn’t join me.
When I arrived in Frisco on that March afternoon in 2014, the weather was a balmy 48 degrees, and the 12 feet of snow that had fallen during the year was beginning to turn My first afternoon there, however, it started snowing and, by the next morning, six inches of beautiful snow covered on the ground.
As soon as I entered the kitchen at 7:30 am, Julie asked me if I was up for cross country skiing. I agreed, and we got dressed and ready.
Julie and Sam live only a couple of blocks from the Frisco bike trail, and the snow was fresh enough for us to ski right from their house. She fitted me with an extra set of boots, poles, and skis.
The snow was as beautiful as anticipated, but I had thought that cross country skiing would be like riding a bike: Once my skis were on, I would be gliding along the path like I did years ago.
However, I was a little older, a little less flexible, a little heavier, and my progress was pathetic. I also was at high altitude, another barrier.
Julie was a good teacher; she reviewed how to kick up my heels, how to glide, how to lean forward to get better momentum. But despite my attempts, I always was at least 200 yards behind her.
We poked along for a mile or so, and Julie suggested we scrape off the sticking snow from the bottom of my ski like we practiced at home. I kicked my left ski out, tried balancing on my right leg, and crashed to the ground.
After several attempts to get up, I finally had to remove my skis and right myself, necessitating my getting back into the bindings. Two tries, five tries, eight tries. No luck. Julie, getting more frustrated, showed me where to clip in the toe, pointing to the spot on the binder.
“Right here?” I asked.
“Yes!” she answered.
And I put my toe in and snapped the binding down . . . on my poor daughter’s finger.
About five more tries later, I was into my bindings and on our way again. I was still pokey, and we had to stop a couple of more times to scrape our skis, but after three miles round trip, we were home and cozy and sipping tea.
The next morning, I woke up feeling pain in muscles I didn’t remember I had. But when I went down to breakfast, Julie replayed yesterday’s scenario.
“Want to go cross country skiing?” she asked. “It may be sticky, but let’s wax the skis and give it a try.”
A half an hour later, we were back on the bike path. My skis had clipped in on the first try, and the wax helped me glide smoothly over the fresh tracks Julie broke in front of me. I could not stop smiling, even when I fell down and picked myself up with no trouble.
“You’re doing so much better this morning, Mom,” commented Julie. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Every minute!” I responded.
“This is a bluebird powder day,” Julie said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It’s a Colorado expression,” explained Julie.
“The sun is shining, the sky is a brilliant blue, the new snow is a perfect powder, and the temperature is perfect.”
“You’re right, Jules! It is a bluebird powder day!”
And we kept on gliding through the powder.
