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I'm not just dreaming. I'm lucky enough to have children who walk. They simply take it for granted—so far —that walking is the only way to get to the best places, those wild places where cars can't go and shouldn't. My sons Ken, who is 17, and Bob, 16, like the look of snow where the only ski tracks are those behind them and where, ahead, the tracks of wildlife are mysteries to try to unravel. They like to top a rise and start down into the far valley knowing that there's no one there, that it is just as wild as if creation had been yesterday. They may even like the sense of relief, of getting away from the compulsion to perfect skiing form—and forget its sub- |
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