Breckenridge, Colorado with Lili

 

39°28'56.2"N 106°03'54.4"W

Skiing in Keystone, Colorado

Uki, Lili, Slawek Gaik, Olivia

After skiing

Ok, so this picture is not so good, but it is the only one I have. My hair is wet (melted ice), we are tired and it is a late night outside. We are sitting in front of a big log fireplace in the ski lodge.

No fear! Exhibition, baby!

Liliann first time up with the lift today. Here coming down on black diamond run "Exhibition", fun and no fear.

Lili

Ski lodge

Sun tanning in front of ski lodge is the best part of skiing. This
kind of active/passive vacation is by far the best. All I wish for is
for all of my friends to be here.

After skiing

Lili did very well and she had fun. I woke up with all of my muscles
sore, but I like the feeling, I live my life.

Wilmot mountain, WI

First time skiing in couple of seasons, I feel pretty rusty, no lean
or spring in my turns. I will have to get my act together before
Rockies.
Lili did well for the first time. It is difficult for her to lean in
the knees instead turning her upper body, but she skis straight and
leans forward.

Ski

Liliann with her skis and a new car ski rack. Yes, I am standing on
the Jeep.

Where I Belong

February is a good month to be born in.
Happy birthday, Maya. Kareem. Ann.

If I were in Poland, I’d also celebrate my name day, the second biggest celebration after birthdays—but that’s not a custom here.

This morning, Ji ate bigos for breakfast. I knew she’d feel sick, but at this moment, I let her eat whatever she wanted. I guess I'll have the afternoon to myself.

A vacation this year? I doubt it.

I miss the mountains.

I miss the patches of snow clinging stubbornly to spring.
The sound of streams rushing over rocks, the crisp air, the way birds call and echo through the trees. I want to drive again through open deserts and high ranges, where the land stretches wide, and freedom isn’t just an idea—it’s something you feel in your chest.

I love this country. I love freedom. But I feel homesick.

I was born in the mountains, and it is there where I belong.

Here, in the city, I feel trapped.

On the trail, people nod and say, “Hello there, how are you doing?” Here? Nobody cares. I hate big cities.

Last night, I watched the Men’s Super G at the Salt Lake City Olympics.
To an outsider, it may not seem like much—there are faster and flashier sports —but if you understand what it means to race downhill at 55 mph, you feel it in your bones.

To me, it's the ultimate challenge.

Imagine this:
Drive your car on an uneven country road at 55 mph.
Now, stick your head out the window.
Take a ski pole and try to jab it into the ground.
At the same time, make 45-degree turns.

If your truck survives the exercise, you’ll have a slim idea of what it takes to ski.

It’s just a person, speed, and gravity. The G in Super G stands for Giant, but to me, it stands for G-force.

Your muscles burn on each turn.
Unlike tires, the razor-sharp edges of your skis carve through snow and ice.
The wrong edge at the wrong angle? You’re gone.

It’s an on-the-edge sport.

Every mistake and every bump can have consequences. You fly 90 feet per second. A misjudged turn by a couple of degrees, and you miss the gate. There’s no room to spare, no millisecond to procrastinate.

I miss skiing. I miss the mountains.