I grew up in a place with long winters. Snow might fall as early as October or November. Of course, it didn’t stay: real snow didn’t come until December when the sun set in the afternoons and ice completely covered the lake. But I didn’t mind the cold. Winter meant sledding and snow angels and ice skating. I was giddy whenever there was fresh snowfall in the mornings, with a child’s excitement to see everything covered by a white blanket as if by magic.

Later, in junior high, winter activities grew slightly more adventurous. I took skiing lessons. Mind you, the mountain was small, the slopes manageable and the lodge’s specialty was deep-fried Oreos. There was no chair lift; a creaking T-bar pulled you to the top. I don’t recall anyone wearing helmets except a few snowboarders. It wasn’t unusual for a Carhartt to double as a ski jacket. But one has to start somewhere.

And I did. I learned how to fasten my boots and use the poles. I could execute cautious snowplow wedges as I descended the slopes. I progressed grom green circles to blue squares to black diamonds. Things gelled just as I left for college in Atlanta GA. Over the next several years my studies and career took me away from snowy places (although I did manage to get frostbite skiing with friends in Maryland.)

But it is strange how life comes full circle. Earlier this month, for the first time in more than two decades, I was back at the place I began. It was a beautiful February day. Bright sky. Mild temperatures. Sunshine. A friend and I made the two-hour drive from Pittsburgh, leaving highways behind for two-lane roads that cut through farmland.

I saw that things had changed since my last visit. There was a chair lift and an upgraded bunny hill. Wooden walkways, and an extended snowtube area. But mittens still hung around the enormous wood fireplace in the lodge. I even spotted a few Carhartts.

My first run was cautious. The second one was the same. I wasn’t a careless 17-year-old anymore, swooshing down the hill. Age plus past injuries¾ a torn ACL, motorcycle accident, sprained ankle, and hamstring tear¾  made my risk calculus much different from what it had been.

But each time the apprehension grew a little less, and the joy took hold a little more. The day was so beautiful it was impossible not to fall under its spell. My body remembered how to glide. How to let go. And for a couple hours on a magical afternoon, I did.