Ammi Midstokke: Confessions of a northwest-raised non-skier

It’s that time of the year. The temperature drops. The leaves turn all shades of fluorescent yellows and amber reds. There is talk of snow flurries in the mountains.

And a particular faction of society starts discussing their ski goals for the year. Typically beginning with investment in new equipment, if they haven’t already invaded spring sales.

It is about this time of year – every year – that someone has a prying conversation with me in which I reluctantly admit that I do not know how to ski.

Of course, there is a spectrum of knowing that ranges somewhere from “I’ve never put on slippery sticks” to “I justifiably wear a helmet cam.”

My ski level sits at a shameful “I undeservedly own pretty nice equipment.”

This information never fails to beg the question: How can a woman who grew up right here not know how to ski?

I would like to clarify this matter for the general public, if only to appropriately set an expectation of when folks see me careening down the bunny hill and green squares all winter long.

My parents moved to Sandpoint in the winter of 1985 – Dec. 15 to be precise. Whether it was pre-global-warming or a record winter, I do not know, but there were several feet of snow on the ground already.

Because my parents were 28 at the time and had read too many hippie homestead magazines, they schlepped our two-wheel-drive pickup onto the property they purchased and unloaded the camper that became our home. Then they dragged the truck back down the two-mile pause in forest growth they called our driveway and left it there to “safely” commute the treacherous lakeshore curves of Bottle Bay Road.

Before leaving the golden warm comfort of California in what was something like a continuation of a colder John Steinbeck novel, they purchased the entire family cross-country skis. By all rights, I should be a wicked skilled telemark skier.

We were very excited about the skis the first day we tried them. I was 7 and my brother was 9. It was Christmas and we lived rather poverty stricken in a camper that blew over in strong winds. We decorated a mini tree with bibs and skied up and down the trails we made. We ate snow cones drizzled with some chocolate from the gallon of syrup my uncle gave us. It was amazing.

Then, when we needed to go to town we put the skis on and headed down the mountain. In cross-country skis, this was a rather treacherous journey in and of itself. The other challenge: we also had to transport things in and out.

We tied twine to our plastic toboggans and loaded enough cargo to look like a family of USSR defectors. We towed laundry, groceries, dog food – my baby sister – up and down that road. In the spring, when we could no longer wear skis, we still towed the sleds through the sticky mud.

The year my parents got a horse, I believe my brother and I briefly worried we’d have to find a new home, our function now replaced. Then we realized that other homes might have things like electricity and toilets and we worried less.

Skiing was not a pastime, but much like horse riding and sleeping outside, a utilitarian means of survival. The idea of skiing out of our property to drive up another mountain and go ski there seemed rather absurd.

We were most excited about the roof leaking enough that Mom rented a motel room on the side of the highway. It had those beds you could put quarters in, and praise the angels, a television! For children raised off the grid, our most exciting adventures were to civilization and modern amenities.

For the fourth season now, I will attempt to continue teaching myself how to ski (nostalgia – and perhaps a draw toward humility and humor – has me on telemarks). I too now wait for the dusting on the hills and wonder, “Is this the year I’ll make a solid turn?”

One thing is for certain though: If any cargo needs to be towed into the back country, I’m your girl. Just don’t ask me to ski back down.