The Reluctant Publisher

Tag: Skiing

  • Where the People Are Not

    I shall be telling this with a sigh

    Somewhere ages and ages hence:

    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.

     From The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

    Where the People Are Not

    June, 2025

    I recently saw a t-shirt that said, “I want to be where the people aren’t.” It was a play on lyrics sung by Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Her lyric is “I want to be where the people are” in her longing to live on land instead of under the sea. The shirt made me chuckle and think that I should get that for my husband. He definitely wants to be where the people aren’t. For the nearly 34 years of our marriage, my husband has successfully avoided most parties and many family gatherings. He goes to the big important things like weddings, graduations, funerals and a few parties that are important to me. It’s not that he’s anti-social. He’s heard the stories and had the conversations and that’s enough for him. 

    Being where the people aren’t has been an unspoken theme for most of our family travel plans. More often than not when people ask where we have been or where we are going, their reply is Where is that? or I’ve never heard of that. For us, that’s a good sign. We are going where the people aren’t.

    We are not going to wildly exotic places. Most often our destinations are not that difficult to get to and we find comfortable places to stay. We are definitely not roughing it. Typically, we are taking the left turn when most people turn right. In The Bahamas for example, most people opt for a cruise stop in Nassau or a stay at the Atlantis Resort. We opt for a small out island called Eleuthera. The people are friendly. It is remarkably safe. The beaches are pristine and usually empty. The restaurants are owned by locals and usually feature the fresh catch. The challenge and the reward is having to make your own fun. Amazing memories were formed by making our own fun.

    My husband is a great skier. Growing up in New Jersey, he took countless road trips alone or with friends to destinations in Vermont, New Hampshire and New York. As a dad, his pick for teaching our kids to ski was one of the most challenging mountains on the East Coast, Whiteface Mountain, affectionately known as Ice Face. There are no ski in ski out accommodations, not much of an apres ski scene, in fact not many amenities at all except for bathrooms and a warm lunch when you want it. It is notoriously cold, windy and yes, icy. Consequently, lift lines are minimal because, as you might guess, we were where the people aren’t. Fast forward, our kids, who are now adults, can and will ski anything.

    When our children were ages five and nine, they were perfect ages for a trip to Disney World. My husband suggested Iceland instead. It was a trip full of natural wonders and exhilarating experiences. Even there, we ventured beyond Reykjavik which is the typical stopover for most travelers when they stop in Iceland on their way to another European destination.  We drove to the northern city of Akureyri, less than 100 kilometers from the Arctic Circle. (Ask us about our whale watching trip.) We happened upon the Icelandic National Arts Festival. Opera, symphony, folk music, performance art . . . it was one of the most serendipitous experiences. There were carnival rides and some magical Norse characters walking around but it was definitely not Disney World. 

    We can thank the British novelist Patrick O’Brien for inspiring trips to Mallorca and later Menorca, two of the three Balearic Islands of Spain which were important ports and key battle sites during the British, Spanish and French naval wars. The Azores? Nine Islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean which are Portuguese. Incredible trip.

    There are more. If you ask me about our destinations, I’ll tell you about them but I usually use the phrase “Amazing place but it’s not for everyone.” And that is why we choose to go where the people aren’t.

  • Ski Legs: Seconda Parte

    It is December, 2022. The omicron strain is gone as fast as it erupted. Or maybe people just got tired of COVID restrictions. As soon as they were able, our kids were flung like objects from a catapult back into their twenty-something lives. 

    We were supposed to go to Italy a year earlier but we cancelled our plans due to the above-mentioned Omicron strain. Fortunately everything we had reserved and purchased for the original trip was held for us for twelve months. One year later than planned, we were going on a ski trip to the Italian Alps. Cervinia to be precise. Choreographing the travel from three different places proved challenging but it worked. The four of us met at the rental car counter at the airport in Turin, Italy and we were off. 

    Driving through the Italian Piedmont surrounded by farms, you could see why the area was known for its delicious cured meats and cheeses. The mountains were in the distance and we were headed that way. We started to climb . . . and climb going through a few picturesque villages. 

    The weather was kind of gray and cloudy which made me anxious that we were going to have bad weather for this trip. The climb continued and then WHOA! The mountains came into view. That was not bad weather we drove through. It was the clouds. Now we were above the cloud line and the snow covered peaks were in front of us, specifically the Matterhorn. The grandeur is beyond my writing skills. Suffice to say that we saw a few folks rounding hairpin turns hanging out of their car windows to snap pictures. The view may have been worth risking your life for. Cue the nervous excitement. 

    Checked into our cozy apartment, equipment rented and our daily plans started to unfold. 

    Day one: We skied over 25 kilometers to a town in the Valle d’aosta, passing by a few other potential stops along the way. The trail ended and we sat outside at a small bistro and ate wood-fired pizza topped with local meats and cheeses. Magical. 

    Day Two: The kids decided to take the day and ski to Zermatt, Switzerland. I mean when you can ski to a different country, you do it. Dave and I took it a little easier and got more familiar with the slopes and trails closer to us. Great day.

    Day Three: Another gorgeous ski day on wide open slopes. We skied to a cafe right on the border of Italy and Switzerland and stopped for a late breakfast. This trip is going so well. We decided to skip our plans to explore away from the mountains and just stay where we were. 

    Onward down the mountain. Icy Patch. I fell. It was not a yard sale of a fall. I just slipped and fell. And I felt something . . . in my knee. A twinge. I thought, “Ok, let me regroup and get myself up.” I tried and tried again. I kept falling. Frustrated. I needed help. Literally at that moment a member of the ski patrol appeared. He said “Are you hurt?” I said, “No, I just need a hand getting up.” He obliged and I got up only to fall down again. He said, “Can you ski?  I said “Yes, I just can’t put any weight on my right leg” and he replied in his suave Italian accent “Then you cannot ski.” I guess he was right as much as I did not want to believe it. It didn’t even hurt. A moment later, the sled arrived and I was heading down the mountain, on my back facing the handsome Italian ski patrol rescuer who was singing Coldplay’s “Sky Full of Stars.” 

    An X-ray revealed no broken bones. The Doctor pointed me in the direction of a Pharmacy with a picture of the brace and the crutches I should get and a prescription for a pretty high dose of Ibuprofen. I left the pharmacy with the brace and the ibuprofen and skipped the crutches. I was not going to let this ruin my trip. I conceded that the skiing part of the week was finished for me but not the rest of the family. Don’t feel sorry for me. I was in the Italian Alps and Dave was a good nurse. He took a day off of the mountain and we did some exploring, on foot. It was slow going but I did it. The rest of the time I spent reading in our room literally in the shadow of the Matterhorn, eating traditional Piedmont lunches of meats, cheeses, bread and wine. And meeting the family for memorable dinners. Heavenly. On the seventh day, we headed home.

    Five or six weeks later, I was still using the brace. That twinge on the mountain? An  MRI revealed a torn ACL, a partially torn Meniscus, and some floating bone fragments. In the words of my wise husband, “That doesn’t sound good.” I blew out my knee in the Italian Alps. Was it worth it? That’s a topic for another essay.