Sacred Turns
A treatise on the holiness of skiing
By JULES OLDER

From 1972 to 1986 I lived in New Zealand. In the winter of 1981, this normally peaceful country was torn asunder by, of all things, a rugby match. The government of the day allowed the Springboks, South Africa's national rugby team, to tour New Zealand and play against that country's revered national side, the All Blacks. Never have I seen a nation so divided by a single event—brother against sister, parent against child, Maori against Maori. People talked of nothing else; it was New Zealand's Simpson trial and Bush-Gore election rolled into one. After weeks of demonstrations, police baton charges, and endless news coverage, my wife and I fled to the mountains with our family for five days of peace.

We settled into the Tekapo Ski Club hut with congenial strangers from around the country. During the week we never spoke of The Tour and never spoke about not speaking of it. When a jerk from Wellington broke the silence and offered his opinions, he was promptly and firmly shut up, most forcefully by his own friends. Instead of national politics, we spoke of the reflection of the Southern Alps in the blue waters of Lake Tekapo, of sunshine and soft snow, of how quickly the children were learning to ski.

Ten years later I attended the bi-annual Black Summit of the National Brotherhood of Skiers in Park City, Utah. The week-long 1991 Summit coincided with the first Gulf War. Although most of us grabbed snippets of CNN at every chance, although some had relatives battling tanks in desert sands, the war was every bit as taboo as The Tour was in New Zealand a decade earlier. Instead, we talked of the splendor of the Wasatch, the terrors of Jupiter Peak, and the pleasures of lunch on the sun-soaked deck of Mid-Mountain Lodge.

To me, both experiences are evidence of the holiness of skiing. Webster says "holy" is "associated with a divine power; sacred." It's also "worthy of worship or high esteem; revered." These all describe how I feel about skiing. And there are forces that lift this sport out of the ordinary and into the realm of the sacred.

The first step to holiness is getting away from the humdrum of ordinary life. And to ski, almost everyone has to purposely go somewhere, to leave home. That alone sets it apart from croquet and Frisbee.

Besides leaving home, one also must go to the mountains. Long before the Sermon on the Mount, long before Moses climbed Mount Sinai to collect the 10 Commandments, and probably before Noah’s ark landed on Mount Ararat, mountains have been sacred places. Maybe it’s because you have to struggle ("we are climbing Jacob's Ladder") to reach the peak, maybe because mountains are the closest thing on Earth to heaven. Whatever the cause, mountains are sacred.

Holiness is also associated with beauty. Framed by cerulean sky, green-needled trees, and the blinding whiteness of snow, skiing is a pastime of exalted beauty.

But location, no matter how vertiginous and comely, is mere backdrop. It is the sport itself that evokes the divine. Ever try to figure your taxes while telemarking? No? How about planning a meeting while running gates? Not that either? It's almost impossible to concentrate on anything else while skiing. It is all-consuming. It demands and commands total attention. A giddy, lightheaded feeling takes over when your turns are round, when your skiing becomes effortless, and when your skis carve perfect arcs through perfect snow.

I'm writing these words on September 13, 2001, 48 hours after thousands of Americans were massacred. I'm wandering from computer to NPR to CBS. My wife and I embrace frequently. We speak to our far-flung daughters three, four times a day. My voice is rough with grief. My heart—my whole body—is heavy with sorrow. I oscillate between massive hurt and burning rage.

But I know two things. Pretty soon, if I'm to stay sane, I'm going to need a break from these feelings. And nothing gives me that respite, that time away from trouble, like skiing. In New Zealand, in Utah, in Vermont; during division, disturbance, and war—skiing is holy.

Let's do more skiing.


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Jules Older is Editor-in-Chief of Ski Press Magazine, where this article first appeared.