“There are only four things you can do on skis: Turn right, turn left, go straight, or sell them.”
— Warren Miller (1924 – 2018) American ski and snowboarding filmmaker.
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Warren Miller was a man known for witty, philosophical narrations that made skiing look like a spiritual calling.
Me? I eventually chose option four, but only after disastrous flirtation with options one through three.
Spring cleaning at home last week, an exercise resembling archaeological digs, yielded a poster-sized photo of my son, Lee. In the photo, he’s not more than 10 years old, and slicing through the powder at Taos, New Mexico. Lee turned 46 this week, serving as a stark reminder of just how long ago my snow skiing career melted.
Back when the kids were in school, Spring Break wasn’t for cleaning closets; it was for packing the skiing gear and heading to New Mexico. Trips were where I eventually came to a profound realization: skiing wasn’t on the list of things I was assigned to do during my tenure on Earth.
Both Lee and his sister, Robin, took to the slopes like seals to water. I tried to learn along with them, at an age where “taking up a new hobby” should have involved birdwatching or stamp collecting. Not one where gravity is your primary opponent, and mistakes carry a heavy physical surcharge.
One particular year, I was in a beginner class, relearning the basics one more time because my brain seemed to reset every off-season. A cluster of trembling “older adults,” listening to the instructor’s drone that could have been condensed to one simple suggestion: don’t fall.
Suddenly, a blur of motion whizzed past. A young ski marvel, flying down the slope with the grace of a mountain goat. “Wow,” someone remarked. “Look at that kid!” “
Hmm,” I thought. “That backward baseball cap looks familiar.” The future Olympic hopeful looked back and came to a flying snow cloud halt just past our circle of strugglers.
“Hey, Dad!” Lee called out. “Is that you skiing with all those old dudes?”
“Ah, hey Lee,” I muttered, trying to maintain some shred of parental authority while standing in a pigeon-toed “snowplow” stance. “How’s it going?” It remains a mystery how children possess an internal GPS guiding them to the exact location where their parents are at a most vulnerable moment.
Was it that distraction or my failure to master the physics of a smooth turn that plunged me headfirst into a snowbank shortly after that encounter? Either way, negotiating that curve with two skis going in the same direction apparently required a level of coordination I hadn’t packed for this trip.
While the ride down the mountain on a stretcher behind a snowmobile added a certain “extreme sports” flair to my vacation, the visit to the resort’s first-aid station was less than noble. Lying on an exam table as I watched a collection of white coats confer over my knee in hushed, ominous tones.
“What are y’all thinking?” I asked, nerves mounting as they glanced my way.
“We’re conferring,” the doctor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Whether to schedule you for immediate surgery in Albuquerque or send you home to your own orthopedic surgeon.”
“Doc,” I said, “I’ll take door number three: the one where you bandage me up and let me retreat to the lodge to sit by the fireplace, prop my leg up, and tell tall tales over hot chocolate about my daredevil skiing stunts to anyone who will listen.”
It turns out ski lodge doctors are remarkably short on humor.
The flight home required two seats—one for me and one facing me to keep my newly booted knee rigidly straight until I could see my doctor at home. As the flight attendant was helping me get situated, a voice drifted from across the aisle. “Skiing accident?”
“Yeah,” I replied casually without looking, trying to sound like someone who had conquered a “Black Diamond” run before his demise.
“Taking up skiing at your age with your kids?” he followed. Bracing myself for an interrogation, I turned toward my persistent inquisitor. That’s when I saw it. His leg in a full cast.
“So,” I said … hesitatingly, “Did you know there are only four things you can do on skis?”
—Leon Aldridge
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Leon Aldridge is a veteran editor, publisher, and communications professional, currently enjoying semi-retirement while awaiting his next challenge. His columns appear in: The Center Light and Champion, The Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, the Fort Stockton Pioneer, the Elgin Courier, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.
© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2026. Feel free to use excerpts with full and clear credit given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling.’
A Story Worth Telling 