Anyway, after a winter of lackluster skiing conditions, luckily the snow has finally started to get good and we had a great time.
My dad is the best skier in the world* and the sport has always held a place in his heart. He shared this love with my mother (they spent their honeymoon crashing on people's couches as they skied their way around Colorado) as well as instilled it in me. (Although, let's be honest, there is a frigid chance in hell I would happily go along with that honeymoon plan.)
So from an adorable rug rat age, I've been on skis. Some of my earliest childhood memories involve family Christmas trips to New Mexico where we would ski at nearby Red River.
I loved this little mountain, but I remember at the time thinking that some of the runs were so steep and scary. But whenever this was the case, I knew my dad was there to scoop me up under one arm (think: him runningback, me football) and swiftly ski me down to safety.
Although now I'm too big to carry and my sense of fear has moved from black diamonds to more intangible life worries, I still know my dad is always there for me whenever I need him, and for that I am so grateful! Thanks, dad! Love you!
*According to me and/or many of his stories about "the badass old days"