An Ageless Wonder

Skiing since the age of three, this ‘old fella’ has no intention of stopping

This inspiring octogenarian has been hitting the slopes for more than eight decades with no intention of stopping any time soon!

People must wonder when they see him. Did he make a mistake? Maybe he took a wrong turn. Surely he’s not meant to be at the Sunshine Village ski resort. That poor old fella can hardly walk. That poor old fella? He’s my dad.

Five years ago, my dad was 81 years old and had skied 46 times that season. His right knee was snugged up in a titanium brace, his left knee in a magnetic wrap, a double hernia belt holding him in and, still to this day, he forgets

to wear his hearing aids.

“How’s it going? Last day of the season,” I mentioned while snapping on my helmet.

“Skis, boots, pass,” he muttered. That’s his mantra before he leaves the parking lot and it all started when he forgot his ski boots once, back in Germany in the late ’40s. He got all the way to the top of the tram, walked out with his skis and poles and looked down at his feet. Oops! He had his after-ski boots on. He didn’t get to make the inaugural run in virgin snow that day; no first tracks for him.

“I’m hurrying,” he said while glancing at all the cars parked beside us.

“No rush. The snow is not going anywhere,” I assured him.

”We want first tracks,” he whispered. His white, well-trimmed moustache twitched as he heaved his red parabolic skis onto his shoulder and grabbed his poles.

“What’re you waiting for? Let’s go.” His uneven, jerky stride brought him around the frozen tire tracks as he dug the hard toes of the ski boots in for traction.

I always tense up when he falters. His poles were quick to stab the ground. He regained his balance and paused. His ski jacket rose, then fell. An arm swung forward and he clamped on. Next came the steep, ice-crusted

Top: Barbara’s dad, John, skiing at Sunshine Village in Banff, Alta.

cement stairs. I cringed and held my breath. He shifted the skis on his left shoulder, put the poles in his left hand and grabbed the railing with his right. It’s a tedious process. I followed but not too closely so he didn’t feel pressured to go faster. At the top of the stairs he turned his head to check around before he put down his skis. He shuffled over to the gondola’s line-up. Once we were settled inside the gondola, Dad continued his methodical checks. I sat quietly.

In less than 20 minutes we reached the base of the ski resort, where eight high- speed quad chair lifts would whisk us to the top of numerous runs.

I took a big swallow. My ears popped. A raven soared above as we bumped over the rubber tires on the tracks of another tower. Far below, the tips of the spruce and pine trees resembled green daggers.

Dad tightened the buckles on his boots and slipped his hands back into his gloves.

Only then was he ready to discuss our plan of attack; where to ski first, what run would have the best snow, maybe even new snow. It’s a tactical analysis which requires a great deal of serious deliberation.

A sudden wind swayed the lift. It gave a brief sense of weightlessness, like when you jump up just before the elevator stops. I looked down. Ten stories below, the snow twinkled with minirainbows.

“It’ll be cold,” Dad said while pulling up his neck tube. We reorganized our run selection to take into consideration potential wind drifts.

At the top, Dad hauled his skis off the ramp and onto the snow. He pulled them apart and clicked his boots into the bindings.

His transformation occurred. With the ease and grace of a seasoned racer he slid up to the next chair lift line-up. Once the bar went down, Dad’s shoulders dropped. His breath came out in slow white puffs. I pointed to the thick hoar frost that sparkled on the limbs of giant larch trees that passed by at eye level. The faint “Christmas tree“aroma of spruce and pine trees tickled our nostrils. Fresh runs groomed to perfection spread up to the peak of the Great Divide, an elevation of 2,700 metres. At the top, Dad adjusted his goggles and pushed off.

I watched him. He was in his glory. He was at home. At ease. Doing what he does best. Descending the mountain with the

grace of an old European-style skier, a quiet upper body, closetogether legs, precision parallel turns; he glided down the slope. He was easy to pick out among the more contemporary rigid skiers who appeared to be riding broncs as they made their way down, across and sometimes even up the hill.

It was a treat to watch him that day.

After a few turns of following, Dad yelled “Race you!” and immediately tucked low, carved tight, back and forth. It must have been a slalom race that time. He schussed through an imaginary finish line.

Run after run. Racing. Laughing. Playing. Jostling for the lead.

We took off into the moguls for a bit, but not for too long. His mind can tackle anything, but his knees cannot. We veered off to a smoother run.

While we rode up the chair, Dad nodded at the thin wisp of clouds that clung to the summit of Mount Assiniboine. “Ah, she’s wearing her crown,” he remarked.

He’d seen these surroundings a thousand times. He never got bored of them. As a warden in Banff National Park, he’d spent his career working in the backcountry. If you don’t acknowledge the mystic lighting on a peak, he’ll point it out for you.

”Look at Quartz Ridge. Looks like it slid last night.” The greyblack speckled snow appeared to have peeled off a layer of the mountain.

“Remember the big avalanche?

Barbara says that when her dad’s blue eyes twinkle, you know he’s going to tell a story you won’t soon forget. The skier died,” he stated.

I shook my head and grinned under my scarf. “No. No, I don’t,” I replied.

Dad carried on, reliving the event and recapturing his past once more. The stories rolled out like Santa’s list as we chased each other down the hill, over and over again. ”One more?” I asked. “We haven’t tried Rolling Thunder,” he said while pointing up the hill to a run that snakes through the thick forest. It had an aggressive fall-line. We only did it once.

”Bet it’s good,” Dad said while heading to the lift.

I shook my head and called after him, ”You are one crazy old man!” He laughed. From the top of the Goat’s Eye chair lift to the bottom of the skiout, an eight-kilometre run, Dad carved his turns. I crossed them to make perfect figure eights. It’s our signature to finish off the year. At the bottom, he looked back up the mountain.

“Wunderbar!” His moustache twitched above a huge grin. He popped out of his bindings. A couple of good taps shook the loose snow off his skis before he heaved them over his shoulder. His right hand clutched his ski poles and he swung them forward. The momentum propelled his ski boots to take a step. Naturally, he was moving slower as he shuffled his way across the parking lot.

A few snowboarders, with snow pants that hung low on their bums, watched him.

“Poor old guy. He can hardly walk,” one said as they all shook their heads.

My father, John Wackerle, turns 86 years old this year and is already talking about the upcoming ski season! n