FIRST SIGN OF WINTER?

Mt. Fuji, Japan

Are you sitting inside watching the snowflakes come down? Is is 25 degrees outside? Or are you in California where it is still 75 and wondering whether winter will ever arrive?


Every year as winter approached in Southern California, my parents would take us to see the latest Warren Miller movie. Miller who died last January, was the first well-known director of ski movies. In his early days, he would narrate his movies from the stage at the San Gabriel Mission Playhouse. His camera would follow expert skiers, such as Olympian Stein Eriksen of Norway, down from the tops of the Alps with plumes of powder snow billowing behind them. He would stand at the bottom of beginner hills and make us laugh at the Laurel and Hardy-type antics of people learning to ski. In his movies, the sun was always shining, the skiers were always smiling. My family was enchanted. We all wanted to learn to ski.

My dad from Minnesota, had learned cross country skiing as a child. After watching Miller movies, he decided he wanted to give alpine skiing a try. He had visions of doing S-turns down mountain slopes just like his role model, Stein Eriksen.

My dad on cross country skis

My family ventured to the local ski shop to purchase the equipment we all needed. Back then, the skis were wooden and heavy. I stood at attention while the shop clerk asked me to raise my hand straight above my head. He placed one of the skis so the tip touched the tip of my extended fingers. The poles, lightweight at least, were made of bamboo with leather straps tying the baskets in place. The boots were lace-up leather and needed stuffing with socks to fit. I only learned how cold my toes could get when we trudged through the snow. All of our clothing was heavy wool: wool pants, wool caps, wool sweaters with Scandinavian designs woven in them, and woolen socks, all itchy and uncomfortable. We trundled out of the shop with our ungainly purchases.

Wooden skis and bamboo poles    Courtesy of Ski the World

On a blustery weekend, my dad parked on the road leading to Wrightwood ski resort in the San Gabriel Mountains. He handed me my equipment and I tried to pick up the skis and sling them over my shoulder while carrying my poles as I had seen in the Miller movies. I was almost 10 years old, just 5 feet tall, and weighed less than 80 pounds. The ground was slippery with ice. I couldn't cope with carrying all the equipment, let alone the snowflakes creeping down my neck and my toes turning to cold bricks. I hated skiing right then and there. The rest of the family, older and stronger, lasted the day and learned to be proficient on the snow, while I stood and complained until my mother dragged me inside the resort lodge. At least the hot chocolate tasted good.

After a few more outings to Wrightwood and Mammouth, my parents put away the skis. The cold, the expense, and driving in blizzards had curbed their enthusiasm, but they continued to watch Warren Miller movies. I didn't venture to the snow until my twenties and married Bill, who learned to ski in college and now skied like the Stein Eriksen of yester year making smooth S-curves down the ski slopes.

I still had the wool sweater with the Scandinavian designs, but I traded my old skis for some lightweight K2 skis that didn't even reach my head in length. I took lessons and found I could follow an instructor down difficult terrain. Bill and I became fanatics, skiing almost every weekend at Squaw Valley at Lake Tahoe. My toes still hurt, but finally I was able to master most of the slopes of that resort. Bill continued carving S-curves with other expert skiers.

We skied almost every weekend for 20 years, but then the drive back and forth to Tahoe became too long. It wasn't until we moved to Japan, that we skied again. Theo, our son, who was 9 at the time, attended a school in Tokyo that offered a week of ski lessons at Nagano. To get there, we traveled by train with just a small suitcase each, carried no ski equipment with us, and stepped off the train right at the resort with the sun brightly shining, a reminder of the old Miller movies. Though Squaw Valley and Nagano had been Olympic venues, most of the Nagano slopes provided a good run, but not the "nail-biting - stand in my tracks - I'm not going to move because I'm going to die" fun that I often experienced at Squaw.

The sun was still shining as we walked into the lodge to rent equipment that was brand new. By the time we got to the slopes though, the sun had disappeared, and a storm swept through the resort. Theo spent the week in lessons, with wind whipping his face and snow sneaking down his neck. He came away disliking skiing almost as much as I had when I first learned. It wasn't till we took a trip with friends to Fujiten ski resort on Mt Fuji that I saw him having fun. As we skied down the slope, he used the fallen snowboarders on the hill as slalom markers to make quick turns down the mountain side, just like the slalom skiers in the Warren Miller movies.

Bill and Theo at Fuji-ten Ski Resort

When I read that Warren Miller died in his 90s last January, I couldn't help reflect about what an influence he had had on my life. He was the first one to challenge my family to try an athletic endeavor. Watching the skiers in his movies made us all dream big and imagine ourselves in their places. Without his movies, I would not have been able to visualize how to carve an S-curve in the snow. Without his movies, I would not have persevered through blinding snowstorms to reach the top of the mountain or to jump off into powder to float through puffs of snow. Warren Miller's movies taught me to give hard things a try.

Ski lift at Nagano, Japan

If you are a skier and look forward to the snow-covered slopes of winter, you have a chance to be inspired by a new movie, Faces of Winter, a tribute to Warren Miller and his impact on generations of skiers.  Check out the schedule for a showing near you.

https://warrenmiller.com/film-tour

Wonder what to do with old skis?  Check out Warren Miller's article:
https://skitheworld.com/2018/10/sniagrab-isnt-a-snow-dance/