Ernest Hemmingway has been my muse (one of many) in spite of his misogynistic womanizing ways. I imagine myself as the swashbuckling, most interesting man in the world persona. OK, maybe not the most interesting man, but woman, in the world persona. I went to Shruns, Austria because that’s where Hemmingway and his Paris Wife (the book by the same name tweaked my interest) spent winters skiing and drinking in the local pubs, cutting his normal wide swath. Who wouldn’t want a life like his, travelling the world, skiing, writing, doing outdoorsy stuff that only the most interesting man in the world would do. He lived for a spell around the Cooke City, Montana area, had a car crash that landed him in a Billings hospital. OK, I don’t want to do that last part. And I definitely don’t want to end up so depressed I’d want to end it all. I don’t have the guts for that, and I don’t have any problems that big.

Anyway, getting back to Hemmingway, he skied. He would have been the perfect man had he played tennis, but I don’t remember reading anything about tennis in the books or movies I’ve seen about him.

But I digress.

I feel great joy when I ski. And I am so grateful that my hip is holding up so well. I have skied Ski Santa Fe, Winter Park, Keystone, Copper Mountain, and soon Snowbasin in Huntsville, UT.

Years ago (like 40 or more) I was living in Colorado as a salt salesman for Cargill. I skied every free moment I had. It was then that my brother Harry, his wife (who is also my best friend from childhood) and my mom came to visit. We were all going skiing, but Mom didn’t ski. We had her talked into trying. She got all bundled up—layers of pants, sweaters, coat, gloves, two pair of socks. I made a major mistake that day. I drove up and the first turn is the Mary Jane side of the resort. I pulled in and a huge, steep run was the first thing we saw. Mom paled at the sight and politely declined to kill herself. She spent the day cozy by the fire while the rest of us skied. She never did try, and she was probably only in her late 50s at that time.

There are always new things at the resorts, even though I have been to these places before. Even if there are no new man-made features, the snow is different every time, so the skiing is unique to each visit.

This trip a new lift at Keystone called Bergman goes to the top of the mountain, and the views were spectacular. Across the valley the entirety of Breckenridge could be seen. Sweet.

Copper Mountain will always have a place in my heart as we have a photo of my good friend Fred Caruso, arms flung out in pure joy at the top of Copper, with Interstate 70 in the background.

My plan was to stop at Vail for a half day of skiing before staying with Fred and Ellen in Eagle. The night before I was leaving Mo’s townhouse I had heart palpitations. I’ve had these before and the cause was inconclusive. The first time I had flown into Albuquerque, didn’t drink much water even though I was thirsty from the flight, rushed to Santa Fe to meet some friends for dinner then drank like Hemmingway. I went to the emergency room that night with these palpitations; it was inconclusive.

This time I figured it was altitude and caffeine. I headed out, every direction is at lower altitude than Frisco, and even Eagle, Colorado is a couple thousand feet lower.

As I left Frisco, I promised Mo that if I had these palpitations again I would stop and go to an emergency room. I slowed down at Vail, tempted to ski one of my favorite mountains, but figured I wanted to get good rest at Eagle, so I waved as I drove through Vail Valley on my way west.

I had a quick overnight with Frellen, catching up with each others’ lives. Fred is publishing his book, Born Again Irish, about the Flying Tiger 923 plane crash in the Atlantic and his survival story. His wife Ellen, an accomplished lobbyist and force of nature, is a shirt-tail relation of mine. They have been important people in my life since my 20s.

Of course I know everyone was worried about my heart palpitations. I was worried, too. Again I promised Frellen that I would stop if I had more episodes, but as I descended from 9000 feet to 6600 feet, things settled down.

I had actually not skied many days on the trip so far. When I had begun, I knew that the luster of the Solo Ski Sojourns was dimming. I had originally thought last year might be the last, but then the gastrocnemius injury occurred.  And then the hip replacement. I knew I needed to get back at it to test my joints and limbs. It wasn’t that I loved skiing any less, it was that in the scope of my life there were so many things I wanted to do, and I was beginning to have that, “Been there, done that,” feeling.

I was committed to my Solo Ski Sojourn 5, and I had miles to go.

I left early the next morning, my truck pointed West to Utah.