Many Steps Make Mountains

“My friend here was not in the Olympics.”

“No, why not?”

“Because I won $50 in a bowling contest and lost my amateur status.”

— Aspen Extreme

I used to be the guy running back and forth in front of my house to round a run up to the next mile. If the watch said 9.87, there was no chance I was stopping before 10.00. Truthfully, I still might be that guy from time to time.

The funny thing is that I was never training for anything particularly important. No sponsorships. No prize money. No professional ambitions. Just another member of the large and mostly invisible tribe of mountain athletes who take this stuff far more seriously than logic would suggest.

The Tahoe area is full of these people. Whatever you’re getting into, someone nearby is probably doing it farther, faster, or before sunrise.

The teacher getting dawn patrol turns before work. The contractor squeezing in a ride after a ten-hour shift. The parent waking up at 4:30 a.m. to skin uphill before daycare drop-off and after-school activities fill the rest of the day.

Most of us aren’t professionals, but most of us are tremendously passionate. The mountains are still woven into how we experience the world. They influence where we live, how we spend our free time, who our friends are, and often how we define ourselves.

Most of us will never make a living specifically from these sports. Yet we still wake up before dawn, study weather forecasts like they matter, and organize family calendars around storms. In mountain towns, the line between recreation and identity gets blurry. These pursuits may not be our profession, but they’re far more than hobbies.

The challenge is that eventually life becomes more complicated than a weather forecast and a free weekend.

The middle is a strange place. You’re not trying to make a living in the mountains, but you’re not casually dabbling either. You still care deeply. You still chase powder days, trail miles, and fitness goals. You just happen to be doing it alongside careers, spouses, kids, and bodies that no longer recover quite as quickly.

For years, a “good day” was simple: one more lap. One more mile. Leave it all out there, I would say. Finish with an empty tank of energy and a full heart.

These days I’m realizing it’s not a bad idea to leave a little in the tank for when I get home too.

My wife and I joke about “relationship currency.” Every ski tour, bike ride, trail run, daycare drop-off, packed lunch, work obligation, grocery run, and bedtime routine either spends a little currency or earns a little back.

The books are rarely perfectly balanced. Lindsay has been incredibly supportive of my passion for skiing and the mountains. If I’m being honest, there have been plenty of seasons where she’s carried more of the burden than I have. These days I’m trying to get a little better at recognizing that and finding ways to return the favor.

What I’ve learned is that every extra lap draws from the same account as family life, work, recovery, and everything else that matters.

That doesn’t mean the mountains become less important.

It just means they stop being the only thing that matters.

The surprising thing is that I don’t care any less about my time in the mountains. If anything, I may care more. Scarcity has a way of sharpening appreciation.

Nobody really prepares you for that version of mountain life.

There are endless stories about pushing harder, going farther, and chasing bigger objectives. There are stories about heeding warnings and turning back before the summit. But there are far fewer stories about learning when to simply slow down a little.

Not for lack of wanting to go, but for the sake of being able to keep going for a long time.

I’m learning that the second lap sometimes matters less than getting home when I said I would. That tomorrow’s ski day is often more important than squeezing every last drop out of today’s. That taking care of the body that allows me to do these things might be just as important as the activities themselves.

I’m learning that being a present spouse, father, and friend doesn’t make me any less committed to the mountains.

I’m still tempted by the extra lap. I still catch myself pushing a pace for no reason other than pride. I still occasionally make decisions that my knees, my wife, or my future self would prefer I didn’t.

Let’s face it, I’m still me.

I’m still trying to find ways to make deposits into Lindsay’s account. I’m more likely to leave a little in the tank. These days I usually make the timeline we agreed upon to get back home.

Maybe that’s wisdom. The view from the middle.

If it is, it feels a lot less graceful than wisdom was advertised to be.