By A.J. Peters
I started skiing when I was young. My dad was a ski instructor at a hill 30 minutes outside of Seattle, and every Sunday he’d wake us up early to move our pillows and blankets into the back of the car. Out of ritual, we’d stop at a Belgian waffle house on the way up, and cram ourselves full with butter, flour, and sugar to start the day. Those are some of my fondest memories. Not just the skiing, but the whole process; it was a sort of weekly vacation, steeped in tradition. Yet for all the time I spent on the snow, I didn’t love it, long for it, until I came to Santa Fe.
I could go on and on about Taos (they should really start paying me), but I’ll do my best to be concise. There is nothing as wonderful, as unbelievably exhilarating and joyful, as making a couple of long, early morning, arching turns through weightless powder before dropping through a cliff-lined chute, all beneath a seemingly endless blue sky. And we have rituals here too. On the ride up we pass a Stanley thermos of coffee back and forth as we giggle like little kids about the day to come. On the drive home we eat our pb&j’s, talking all the while about the next seminar reading.
It’s an awesome way to get off campus, and to bring some balance to the intellectual exertion of the Program.
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