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“That’s craziness!” exclaimed Caroline the greengrocer happily when I mentioned my ski trip plans. An expected response since not so long ago I was shopping on walking aids following a joint operation. My sister’s friends were rather anxious: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a wise plan. You’ll have an accident and hurt yourself.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, chose it was safer not to tell other people.

A Buried Desire

For at least two decades I’d had a quiet longing to undertake one more ski trip. A concluding dose of blue sky, crisp atmosphere and the exhilaration that comes with finding yourself still intact at the end of a snowy run. My ability was limited, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that was irrelevant. Now in my eighties, I wanted to find out if I was still capable. And if I could do it, why not ask Kate, my sister, a member of our senior women’s club who encourage each other to participate in weekly runs? I recalled that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on my first ski holiday. That was 67 years ago, but my brother was skilled back then, so he got an invitation as well. My friend Penny, who is remarkably youthful (allegedly 67 years old) that she’s almost an exception, was invited along and test her skills among the seniors and brush up on German. Each of us worked to get as fit as possible, but not one had been on skis for at least 40 years.

Picking the Location

Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was the spot we selected, as it has many snowy pastimes – provided we endured our two-hour lesson on the first day (admittedly, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is happily without post-skiing parties. Families frequent it rather than partying youngsters, and is quintessentially Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and wooden cabins. We stayed at the cozy, independently owned a local hotel and we dined somewhere new every night.

“This is what we term Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I commented we were astonished by our fortune at rising every day to cloudless skies, warm sun and abundant snowfall for the start of spring.

Everyone acted as if just to be thrilled, without any concern, as we boarded a shuttle to the winter sports zone. It was crowded with children and adults carrying skis and glowing with vitality. It seemed the staff member getting our ski gear showing skepticism at the challenge.

I felt certain I would tumble immediately upon setting off. But I didn’t. None of us did.

Ulrich, our teacher, who had been informed about our senior status, beamed valiantly as we trudged over. Our voices were somewhat raised, grinning excessively, perhaps trying to postpone the moment when we had to step into the bindings. Inwardly, I believed I’d fall over immediately upon starting. However, I remained upright. Everyone else stayed up too. Ulrich remained calm, allowing us sufficient time at each step of the instruction to become more confident.

Today’s Ski Technology

Today’s skis are far simpler to handle, I discovered – more compact, lighter weight with curved tips – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards I remember from the 60s that frequently caused me to slip from the lift. We knew we would not be trusted on a any type of cable car, so thought we’d have to tediously ascend the incline and descend, tumbling during the descent. It worked like that in the fifties. But here there was a wonderful new device, a “travelator”, or moving walkway, that conveyed us effortlessly to the peak of the novice run, which was crowded with daring youngsters. No other grown-ups were present.

After 120 minutes, we hadn’t even fallen, had all managed some decent snowplough turns and even a version of side-by-side turns. We were overjoyed. “It was truly wonderful!” said Andrew, who isn’t given to hyperbole.

Additional Adventures

Would we have handled a full seven days on the slopes? Perhaps, but the diverse pursuits available in Seefeld was more attractive. We could go walking around various lakes, shuttles providing entry to incredibly scenic towns, and the “winter hike to the Hämmermoosalm, 4.6km (and sled back down)”, as the information pack casually described it.

Being familiar with winter sports, we two understood tobogganing. You run behind, pushing the sled, then jump aboard and speed downward on your front at speeds rivalling a Formula One car. Janina provided comfort. Nothing to worry about: we’d sit on the sled and steer with our feet. Yet we remained apprehensive. Andrew chose not to participate but we three plugged on.

Someone wearing crimson overalls slid past shouting something over his shoulder regarding my sister.

As a 12-year-old it proved fatiguing dragging Dad’s handcrafted sled up Gold Hill common in the English county in our childhood winters, and as an 83-year-old it was tiring pulling a somewhat lighter sled uphill in thin mountain air (the mountain restaurant, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at over 1,400 meters) for nearly 3 miles. I fell behind, grumbling under my breath about being too old for this. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm