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Mountain Culture

Taken for a Ride

Taken for a Ride | Remembering old ski trips.
Taken for a Ride | Remembering old ski trips. (Illustration: Matt Wood)
It meant eight hours on the road to get seven hours on the hill.

One night when I was 12 years old my father walked into my room, shook me awake, and said it was time. It was 4:30 a.m. The bus would be leaving soon. I dressed myself quietly in the dark, grabbed my rental skis, and followed him into the damp mid-Atlantic night.

We lived in the small town of Salisbury, Md., which is so flat that
the biggest hill is an overpass. It rarely snowed. As a result, I had so little idea of what skiing was about that I can still recall my father explaining this exotic sport to me in our den. I was 10.

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