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“Are you insane?” stated the vegetable seller brightly when I told her I was going skiing. A logical reaction since not so long ago I had been out on walking aids after a hip replacement. My sister’s friends were more concerned: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a wise plan. You’ll fall and break something.” My elder brother Andrew, aged 86, decided it was wiser not to tell anyone.

An Persistent Wish

For twenty years or more I held a quiet longing to experience a final winter sports adventure. A concluding dose of blue sky, crisp atmosphere and the excitement that accompanies making it down safely at the base of a white hill. I wasn’t very skilled, and hadn’t skied for decades, but that didn’t matter. At 83, I felt compelled to check if I could still do it. If it worked out, why not ask my sister, Kate, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who support each other to participate in weekly runs? It then occurred to me that, in our youth, Andrew came along on the first time I went skiing. Sixty-seven years had passed, but Andrew had some talent, so I included him in the plans. A companion named Penny, who is surprisingly spry (claiming to be 67) that she doesn’t really count, was given permission to join 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 over forty years.

Selecting the Resort

Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it has many snowy pastimes – if we managed to get through our brief skiing instruction on the first day (frankly, was the only skiing we intended to do) – and is happily without post-skiing parties. Families frequent it rather than rowdy youth, and is typically Austrian, with traditional bell towers and wooden cabins. Our accommodation was the cozy, independently owned Hotel Helga and we tried various eateries nightly.

“This is what we term Kaiserwetter,” said Janina, our guide when I remarked we couldn’t believe our luck at waking each morning to clear blue skies, warm sun and lots of powder for early March.

We were all pretending just to be eager, not worried at all, as we boarded a shuttle to the winter sports zone. It was crowded with children and adults with winter gear and full of life. It seemed the assistant helping us with our boot and ski hire rolling his eyes at the challenge.

I felt certain I would tumble as soon as I moved. But I didn’t. Everyone managed to stay upright.

Our instructor Ulrich, who had been told we were older, smiled bravely as we walked up. We chatted rather noisily, grinning excessively, maybe attempting to delay the moment when we had to step into the bindings. Inwardly, I believed I would tumble immediately upon starting. But I didn’t. Everyone else stayed up too. Our instructor showed great patience, allowing us sufficient time at each stage of the lesson to gain in confidence.

Today’s Ski Technology

Today’s skis are far simpler to handle, I discovered – reduced in length, weight and featuring shaped ends – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards from my memories of the 1960s that frequently caused me to slip from the lift. We understood we wouldn’t be permitted on a lift of any sort, so expected to laboriously herringbone up the hill and descend, taking spills along the way. That was the method back in 1958. However, we found a marvelous modern invention, a moving walkway, or automated track, that carried us smoothly to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was crowded with daring youngsters. We were the only adults.

Two hours later, we remained upright throughout, had all managed some decent snowplough turns and even an attempt at parallel skiing. We were overjoyed. “That was absolutely incredible!” said Andrew, who tends to understate.

Other Winter Activities

Could we have managed a full seven days on the slopes? Perhaps, but the diverse pursuits found in the area was more appealing. There were hikes around various lakes, public transport allowing visits to incredibly scenic towns, and the “snowy walk to the alpine hut, a 4.6-kilometer hike with toboggan return”, as the brochure nonchalantly explained.

Having watched the Winter Olympics, my sister and I knew all about sledding. One sprints behind, propelling the sled, then hop on and race down on your stomach at paces matching fast vehicles. Janina was reassuring. No cause for concern: we’d ride the sled and guide it using our feet. But we did worry. Andrew chose not to participate but we three plugged on.

A fellow in a red jumpsuit skidded by yelling back about Kate.

When I was twelve it was exhausting hauling my father’s homemade toboggan up Gold Hill common in the rural area in our wintry youth, and as a senior it felt draining dragging a reduced-weight toboggan up the slope in high-altitude atmosphere (the mountain restaurant, a traditional alpine mountain hut and farm, is at over 1,400 meters) for nearly 3 miles. I lagged behind, muttering to myself about my age being a hindrance. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm