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Father and Son Tele Fun-Fest

By Bob Berwyn, 2-07-07

	Parker Shell, a third-grader at Summit Cove Elementary, airs it out on his teles during a recent school winter rec session at Keystone.

My best ski days so far this season have been the past few Thursdays, when I managed to sneak out of the office to get on the local hill with a rippin’ posse of free-heelers: Parker, Noah, Becca, Wade, Dylan and all the rest of the third, fourth and fifth-graders from Summit Cove Elementary School who chose telemark skiing as their gig in the school district’s winter recreation program.

OK, so I didn’t really have to sneak out of work. We’re planning a multi-media story about the winter rec program at the Summit Daily News, so combining roles as a volunteer parent and reporter, my Thursday afternoon sessions have been relatively guilt-free, with only the occasional phone calls from sources to remind me that I’m “on duty.” Lucky for me, cell phone service at Keystone is superb, and I’ve conducted many a chairlift and lodge-based interview from that fine resort.

Given that we live in a community so heavily shaped by a winter sports legacy, it seems appropriate that our kids learn early what if feels like to be out on the mountain, no matter what the weather. The program has been a valued part of the curriculum for years and I cherish it even more for the chance it gives to spend the afternoon with my son.

Dylan is a third-grader, and he’s taken a different track each season, learning to snowboard in first grade, spending last winter mostly in the terrain park in the free-skiing class, and this season finally graduating to free-heel status.

I’ve always let him make the choice, but being a dyed-in-the-wool telemarker, you can imagine my heart skipped a beat this past September, when he said, “Dad, I think this year I really want to try tele.”

It was hard to stay casual. I’ve been preaching the free-heel mantra for several decades, ever since I first fell in love with a tele goddess and the soulful turn simultaneously during my stint as a wannabe ski bum in Taos in the early 1980s, back in the days of double-cambered 215s and wire bail bindings.

I asked Dylan why he wanted to try it this year, and wasn’t totally surprised by the answer.

“Well, you’re always faster than me, Dad, and you ski on teles,” he said, always competitive. “If I’m on teles, I bet I can beat you down the mountain.”

Turns out, all these scores of ski days we’ve spent together the past four seasons, he thinks I’m faster just because of the different gear I’m on. He’s convinced that, on teles, he’ll be just as fast. I like that confidence, so I resisted the temptation to get into a long-winded spiel about gravity and mass, instead just nodding: “I think you’re probably right, son.”

So now we’re bonding more than ever before, if that’s possible. We’ve always been close. I took on the stay-at-home Dad role when he was about two, and still remember trying to keep the baby food off my keyboard, working on freelance stories for the Denver Post between feeding him spoons of apple sauce and strained peas.

In the meantime, we’ve moved on to chili-cheese fries in the A-Frame at Arapahoe Basin. But it’s been a bit of a rough year for us both, dealing with some heart-rending emotional trauma after my ex-wife — Dylan’s mom — moved out, deciding she could find some higher-end goods and do better than hanging around with a ski bum-turned-starving-writer. She’s still a great mother to Dylan and will always make sure he’s looked after. But sad to say, skiing and the mountains just ain’t her thing. So each to their own, I guess.

And like I said, we live in a mountain town, and by God, Dylan’s growing up a skier, whether he likes it or not. And he loves it! Sure, there’s a bit of grumbling on some of those blustery Saturday mornings: “Do we have to ski again, Daaad? I wanna watch cartoons. My boots are too tight … My shirt is too itchy … ”

But it’s what we do together for fun (not that homework isn’t) and when I watch him skim down a groomed blue cruiser at Keystone, or work his way through the rocky gullies on the Lenawee Face at A-Basin, I can see the joy and exhilaration blossoming with every turn. Heck, on alpine skis, he was skiing the double black diamond terrain (I know I’m bragging a bit here) at the Basin before his seventh birthday. I’m almost afraid to think of what he’ll be doing on skis when he’s 17, 18 or so.

It’s what we do, and after a good run, with rhythm and flow, and a few airs, we smile and laugh together, sing a song on the chairlift ride back up … “Don’t worry bout a thing, Cause every little thing gonna be alright … ”

He’s still a little frustrated with his tele skills this season. It’s not an easy thing to flex toes, ankles, knees and hips, all while steering both skis simultaneously and independently. And then there’s that business of really pressuring the front of the inside foot, the one with the heel lifted way off the ski. Even a lot of adults learning to tele these days don’t really get that part, thus the tiptoe-through-the-tulips look that afflicts many aspiring free-heelers.

He’s tough on himself, and even though I tell him to go ahead and make parallel turns, he wants to get it, and get it right. So we work on garlands a bit, and try flexing the boot at the ankle while shuffling through the lift lines, and I only wish I could make him understand just how darned good he is. Then again on some of these perfect days, like when we broke icicles off a tree in North Bowl and ate them like candy canes, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Oh, and, shhhhhh, don’t tell Dylan that I can still beat him down the mountain—but only for a few more years. I’m sure of that.

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