Lori circles the globe asking a simple question: Why Do You Ski? The answers go deep.
I have this image. My father, vital in his forties, broad shoulders and tapered waist. I am a child and he is skiing ahead of me in a red jacket on white Colorado piste at 11,000 feet. We are alone. It’s snowing and the wind is high. Great gusts sweep across the mountain’s face. Snow swirls and lifts, drawing and redrawing an opaque curtain. Ahead my father disappears, appears, disappears again.