I was 10 months old at the rope tow at Squaw Valley. My dad said I wasn’t even talking yet but at the end of every run I would just point and reach toward the rope tow to take another lap. Beyond that, my love of skiing started out on the driveway. I had plastic skis that would strap onto my little Sorels and I would just lap the driveway saying “Again! Again!” signaling my dad to come push me back up to the top. When I was finally big enough for real ski boots I was so excited I slept with my ski boots in my bed for like a month.

When I was 11, my dad pulled me out of school at lunch so we could go ride Steamboat. We went to the Mavericks halfpipe for the afternoon. I had been working on my frontside 720 for a while, but never really put one down. After a few close ones a local pro snowboarder, Joe Eddy, gave me a high five and told me I had it. I stomped my first real 7 after that with my dad at the bottom of the pipe filming, and I remember being so stoked because I felt like I could actually be a pro one day.

My father started me skiing at 2, and those earliest trips to the resorts were adventure, excitement and fun balanced with misery and fright. I recall crying from icy-cold hands, a fear of heights on lifts and frustration with old hand-me-down goggles, skis and boots. But I also remember the great feelings that came once I learned to slide on my own. Eleven years after starting me on skis my father showed me how to link turns on a snowboard, and that’s when my love for riding really took off. These memories of time spent with my father are some of the best in my life and laid a foundation for who I am today. I’m forever grateful to my parents for their sacrifice. We didn’t have much money so we made do with thriftstore equipment and night visits to the ski resorts because it was more affordable and my parents worked all day. They taught me I had to work hard to play hard and to make the most of what I have.

I will never forget the first time I dropped into Sun Valley’s famous bowls. Even at the age of 5, recognized that this is where the cool skiers skied. I pestered my dad about taking me into Easter Bowl. I was at an age where I wasn’t allowed to ski anywhere on the mountain without my dad by my side. He finally said, “Alright, but I’m not going to carry you.” I was determined. We dropped in and my wimpy little legs carried me all of the way to the chairlift. One of my proudest moments on skis.

One of my favorite childhood ski memories was our annual Thanksgiving trip to Grand Targhee. I remember getting my skis tangled up trying to load one of the lifts. The liftie had to stop the lift to straighten me out (my first lift stoppage!). All in all those are some of my best memories as a kid and probably a reason why I still love skiing so much.

My family drove to the Colorado Rockies from Minneapolis at least once a year. What I remember was fighting for the back seat of the Suburban (ah, the luxury of personal space), listening to books on tape (The Lord of the Rings was a family favorite.), striving to keep up with my Dad when he effortlessly pulled away on the flats (I relished skiing at his heels.), and marveling at how my Mom miraculously had everything any one of us needed nestled into the bosom of her one-piece ski suit.

My favorite childhood memories on the slopes were when my mom couldn’t keep up with me anymore and being all bundled up on a stormy day.