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“That’s madness!” remarked Caroline the greengrocer cheerfully when I revealed I was going skiing. An predictable response since not so long ago I was seen on walking aids after a hip replacement. Friends of my sister were even more worried: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll fall and break something.” My brother, Andrew, 86, opted it was better not to tell a soul.

A Buried Desire

For twenty years or more I held a secret desire to experience another skiing holiday. One last taste of clear skies, crisp atmosphere and the exhilaration that accompanies making it down safely at the end of a snowy run. I was never much good, and decades had passed since my last ski outing, but that wasn’t the point. As an octogenarian, I needed to see if I was still capable. Should I succeed, why not ask Kate, my sister, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who support each other to participate in weekly runs? It then occurred to me that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on my initial winter sports trip. Sixty-seven years had passed, but Andrew used to be quite good, so I invited him too. My friend Penny, who is surprisingly spry (claiming to be 67) that she doesn’t really count, was invited along and test her skills among the seniors and brush up on German. Each of us worked to become more physically prepared, but none of us had skied for four decades or more.

Choosing the Destination

The Tirol town of Seefeld, close to Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it has many snowy pastimes – provided we endured our brief skiing instruction on the first day (frankly, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is blissfully lacking in après-ski malarky. It attracts families rather than boisterous teens, and is characteristically Austrian, with distinctive church steeples and chalet-type houses. We stayed at the cozy, independently owned a charming inn and we tried various eateries nightly.

“This is what we term Kaiserwetter,” said Janina, our guide when I remarked it seemed too good to be true at waking each morning to cloudless skies, warm sun and abundant snowfall for the start of spring.

We were all pretending just to be eager, not worried at all, as we took a bus to the ski area. It was packed with children and adults holding ski equipment and radiating energy. I suspected the staff member helping us with our boot and ski hire rolling his eyes at our undertaking.

I felt certain I would tumble as soon as I moved. But I didn’t. No one fell.

Ulrich, our teacher, who had been pre-warned of our ages, grinned courageously as we trudged over. We were talking a bit too loudly, smiling too broadly, possibly aiming to put off the time when we had to step into the bindings. Privately, I felt certain I would tumble as soon as I moved. However, I remained upright. None of us did. Ulrich remained calm, giving us enough time at every part of the tutorial to become more confident.

Today’s Ski Technology

Modern skis are much easier to manage, I realized – shorter, lighter and rounded at the front – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards from my memories of the 1960s that always made me fall off the ski lift. We assumed we’d be barred on a lift of any sort, so expected to laboriously herringbone up the hill and ski down, falling over in the process. That’s how it was in 1958. But here there was a marvelous modern invention, a “travelator”, or moving walkway, that transported us easily to the summit of the easy learning hill, which was crowded with daring youngsters. We stood out as the sole seniors.

After 120 minutes, we hadn’t even fallen, had each executed reasonable wedge turns and even a sort of parallel turn. We felt ecstatic. “That was just amazing!” remarked Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.

Other Winter Activities

Could we have managed a entire week of winter sports? Possibly, but the diverse pursuits available in Seefeld was more attractive. Trails were available around various lakes, shuttles providing entry to absolutely charming hamlets, and the “cold-weather trek to Hämmermoosalm, 4.6km (and sled back down)”, as the information pack casually described it.

Having watched the Winter Olympics, we two understood tobogganing. You dash after it, shoving the toboggan, then jump aboard and speed downward on your belly at speeds rivalling a Formula One car. Our guide offered reassurance. No cause for concern: we’d sit on the sled and direct it with our boots. But we did worry. Andrew decided it wasn’t for him but we three plugged on.

A man in a scarlet onesie zoomed past yelling back related to Kate.

During my childhood it was exhausting hauling my father’s homemade toboggan up Gold Hill common in Buckinghamshire in our childhood winters, and as a senior it was tiring pulling a somewhat lighter sled uphill in oxygen-depleted air (the mountain restaurant, a classic mountain lodge and farmstead, is at over 1,400 meters) for almost 5 kilometers. I fell behind, muttering to myself about my age being a hindrance. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm