I think I was 12 years old the first time I went skiing. It was a church youth group event, and we took a charter bus to Copper Mountain. Spending 5 days on the slopes was a great way to learn how to ski. I spent all day, every day on the mountain, and the rest of the time either asleep or listening to Pyromania on my Walkman and avoiding interacting with the other kids as much as I could get away with.

I fell in love with mountains and snow on that trip.

Today, my son took his first ski class. He’s not yet three years old, but loved gliding across the snow on skis with a grin on his face as he learned how to make a wedge — the instructor called it a pizza for easy understanding. Towards the end of his lesson, he said, “I don’t want to make a pizza anymore. I want to ski!”

I think he’s found the love, too. I couldn’t be happier.