“You grew up in the mountains; I envy you!” she commented. I smiled; if only she knew what it had been like.
My parents were passionate skiers and had a ski cabin built in Southern Germany three years before World War II.
“What’s your Nazi Membership Number?” the electrician asked.
“I’m not a member,” Father replied. “Sorry,” he said, “we are not allowed to install electricity or gas or do anything for a person who is not a member of the Party. That’s the law.”
“So be it then. We’ll do without it.”
Father did not join. So no gas, no electricity, no access road. And yet, when World War II descended upon us, Father was sent to the Russian front. Mother and we three children moved to the cabin. We spent many hours sawing and chopping fire wood. We searched the forest for mushrooms and edible weeds. And yes, I did my favorite thing, climbing the tallest trees. The cabin was on the Keilberg, the highest mountain in Southern Germany. It became part of Czechoslovakia after the war.
The garden had a high fence, which we children turned into a ski jump. We shoveled snow until it reached the top of the fence.
“Get your skis and jump,” my brothers told me. I jumped all right, but upon landing my skis got stuck in the deep snow, thrusting my face into the snowbank. After packing down the snow on both sides, we had a perfect jump.
Winters were bitterly cold. I can still hear the wind howling. But no matter how miserable the weather, Mother had us climb the mountain. Not a soul anywhere in sight. No groomed slopes, just deep, deep snow. Skiing was a most tedious task, side-stepping up the mountain with wet leather boots, and heavy wooden skis. I must admit, I did not like it. Besides, we were cold and always hungry. Food was severely rationed then and warm clothing could not be bought. The stores were empty.
From our mountain top we watched the burning cities. World War II was raging. What a contrast—the untamed fury of war, and the majestic beauty of our mountain!
Jean René came to visit us in our cabin. He was a French student who volunteered to work in Germany for a year so that a French prisoner of war would be freed to go back home to France. We invited him to ski with us. Since he didn’t have boots and one couldn’t buy nor rent them, he wore Father’s boots. It took him five pairs of socks to fill Father’s big boots, but it worked.
Climbing up the mountain against the howling, icy wind was not a pleasant task. “Isn’t it tough for your poor children?”, Jean René asked Mother. “True,” she replied, “but life is rarely easy. It’s vital that they learn to cope with whatever challenges may confront them.”
Mother had to deal with challenges too. She had never used a needle and thread, and had no intention of ever using them. So I was surprised to see her busy sewing one day. She had found our oldest, shabbiest and ugliest jackets, and was busy sewing them—but why? I found out many years later.
Since we had no radio and no electricity, we did not know that the war was finally over—until one day our front door crashed open and a dozen Czech soldiers confronted us. They pointed their guns at us and shouted at us to stand against the wall with our hands up. We did, trembling with fear. But not Mother; she greeted them like old friends and asked them a dozen questions about the war. She even offered them food. It utterly baffled the soldiers. What could they do but be nice to us too. They did not touch or harm us.
Nonetheless, this was Czechoslovakia now and we had to leave. Mother handed us those ugly old jackets that were hanging by the front door. No one objected as we put them on. These jackets saved our lives. Mother had sewn money and valuables into their linings.
“May I patrol today,” I asked the head of the National Ski Patrol at Squaw Valley many years later. “Absolutely not,” he declared. “This is a MAN’s MOUNTAIN! We shall NEVER have a woman on the patrol!” Disappointed, I returned to Jimmy Mott, Head of the Professional Ski Patrol, to give my Patrol Card back. He looked surprised: “How come? Did you change your mind?”
I shook my head. “I was told: this is a Man’s Mountain…”
Jimmy smiled. “Follow me,” he said and we re-entered the patrol room, where some 20 men were changing into ski clothes. “From now on,” Jimmy announced, “we shall have a woman on the patrol.” Shocked silence!
Women were being treated differently then and often denied rights that men had. The French would say: “C’est la vie.”
World War II and spending many nights in bomb shelters, being hungry and cold, then losing our home and fleeing from our country and becoming refugees, had taught me to look for what was most important in life: finding joy in the moment, making other people happy and facing challenges head on.
Those childhood days in the mountains, when Mother made us ski no matter how dreadful the weather, were paying off. It was a fortunate thing, because the head of the National Ski Patrol, who did not want women on the patrol, made sure that I would always be settled with the toughest or most unpleasant job.
I recall the day when I had to stand for two hours on the very top of the mountain, just in case someone needed help. It was fiercely cold and the wind was blowing ferociously.
Eventually, the end of the day approached. I skied down the mountain and made sure that no one was left behind. I had barely skied 200 feet when I noticed a young man lying under a tree. His six year old son was standing close by. “No,” he moaned, when I tried to help him up. “Go away! I won’t get up. I will spend the night here,” and he took a big swig from his bottle.
So I examined his arms and legs. “No,” he said again, “I’m fine, just let me sleep.” And he took another swig. I doubt it was water, coffee or tea.
If only I had a toboggan to strap him in and cart him down the mountain! But it had been a busy day with many accidents—no toboggans were left on the top of the mountain. We had no radios at the time, and cell phones hadn’t been invented yet.
“Let me show you how to snowplow,” I said and got him to his feet. We tried, but in vain. He kept falling down and eagerly took more swigs, until he absolutely refused to get to his feet.
“Give me your hands and I shall gently slide you down the mountain,” I suggested. But no, he would not give me his hands. He was determined to spend the night right where he was— stretched out on the snow. Near the top of the mountain. With his bottle.
What to do? I could not leave him there. I had no way to communicate with anyone. So I put his skis and our poles under one arm, and under the other arm I firmly held his legs. His little son had been waiting patiently. Night was approaching as I slowly skied down the mountain, dragging him by his feet.
No, he did not enjoy it. Nor did I. But we made it. We got safely to the patrol room before it was dark.
“Any problem?” the Patrol Chief asked.
“Problem? No, no problem,” I said. Problem is such a negative word, but it had been a challenge!
A friend asked me the other day, how and why I had become a member of the National Ski Patrol? Simple—my five-year old daughter Alison and I fell off the lift!
My husband did not ski, and I felt immensely guilty to go skiing with the children while he would be home alone. So I took them to Mount Baldy on a school day. It was an hour and a half away from our home in Los Angeles. We would leave by 8AM and be back in time to make dinner. We had fun playing “games” in the car—spelling words and doing multiplications, divisions and additions.
We loved every moment of it. But on one ride up the chairlift, my five-year old Alison didn’t get onto the lift properly. She was hanging by her elbows while going up the mountain. I tried and tried to lift her onto the seat, but in vain. I moved closer to get better leverage. The wrong thing to do—the seat opened in the middle and I fell off, and so did Alison. We were both lying in the snow, grinning at each other, when two patrolmen appeared to help us.
I had never heard of the Ski Patrol and expressed great admiration. “We’ve seen you ski,” one of them said. “If you’re interested and take the necessary first aid courses, we may be able to sign you on.”
What an opportunity! If I were a member of the Patrol, I’d have a duty to ski. A minimum of eight weekends a season!
I skied with the Patrol for 16 happy years.
Happy? Not always. I saw some frightful accidents; some that still make me cringe. But I was able to help. And that made it worthwhile.
My love for sports and the outdoors has not diminished yet. During the last two decades I’ve lived in the San Francisco Bay Area. I walk along the Pacific Ocean, usually two miles—with a sandwich in my pocket. Who wants to stay indoors? Nature abounds in beauty!
Next week, I’m leaving for Sun Valley, Idaho, to go skiing with my daughters who live there. I’m greatly looking forward to it!
Still skiing at 93? I love it!
