How One Accidental Ski Day in 1967 Sparked a Lifelong Obsession

I’m a skier because of a misunderstanding—a misunderstanding that changed my life, the life of the woman I would marry, and the lives of our two children.

My mother mistakenly believed that my 16-year-old cousin from Poughkeepsie wanted to visit us in Fairfield, Connecticut, for our enjoyable company. I knew the truth: she wanted to see a boy she had met who lived in Fairfield. Unaware of my cousin’s real motivation, my mother arranged activities she thought my cousin would enjoy. Since my cousin was a skier, we would take her skiing. My sister, 11 at the time, and I, 13, would rent ski equipment and learn to ski. Somewhere deep within the folds of my still-developing brain, I must have been subconsciously drawn to skiing. Otherwise, my growing defiance disorder—my favorite of all my negative personality traits—would have caused me to boldly announce that I wasn’t going.

On that January day in 1967, under steel-gray skies, we set off for Mt. Southington—one of Connecticut’s four ski areas—driving through back roads lined with barren trees that had shed their summer leaves. We passed through the factory town of Naugatuck, where rubber became tires, Keds sneakers, and Naugahyde (the famed leather substitute), past farmland (back when Connecticut had an agricultural industry). Finally, we arrived in what seemed like the middle of nowhere.

The main building, a red barn, housed the rental shop, where my sister and I were fitted for long wooden skis with screw-in edges, cable bindings, and leather lace-up boots. I was captivated by the skis and the motion as my sister and I shuffled the 50 yards to the beginner hill for our lesson in the art of the snowplow.

I felt it immediately—the elation of motion under control—even though that motion was no faster than one mile an hour and took effort to manage. I took to it right away. My sister didn’t. Unable to control her skis, she flipped over a fence. That marked the abrupt end of her skiing career and the start of mine. After the lesson, I took lap after lap on the rope tow. I couldn’t get enough. The T-bar next to the beginner hill seemed to disappear through the gentle snow falling into a heavenly light. I felt like I was inside one of those snow globes with a winter scene. I told myself that someday, I could ride that T-bar. I was mesmerized by the sight of other people skiing, by my own skiing, and by the mountain itself, which—given my rudimentary skills—felt as big as Mount Everest. My parents had to drag me off the hill.

And so it began. Skiing became the guiding force in my life—or, less politely stated, my obsession. In junior high and high school, every free period was spent in the library, poring over current and old issues of ski magazines. This is a semi-adequate, but not entirely true, explanation for why I didn’t do better academically. I pestered people who I knew skied (even if I didn’t know them well) about ski equipment and ski areas. I wrote for brochures from every major ski area in the world. When a JCC day trip to Mount Snow, Vermont, was canceled due to a lack of participants, I called my father, crying. He didn’t understand that what he was supposed to say was “ It’s ok, I will take you this weekend”. Instead he said, “Don’t worry, you’re going to have plenty of skiing in your life.” I yelled back, “That may be, but that doesn’t help me right now.” I was 15. But he was right. I’ve had plenty.

At first, I depended on my parents to take me skiing, and then, because I was too lazy to get my driver’s license, I relied on friends who got theirs as soon as they could. High school and college vacations were spent skiing in Vermont. After graduating from college, I moved to Alta, Utah, for the 1978-1979 season, where I worked as the assistant manager of a small lodge and skied every day. It was a very good ski year—powder and more powder. I decided to move back to Utah after law school, which is precisely what I did, accompanied by the woman I met, also from Connecticut, who reluctantly agreed to marry me. I assumed she either lost a bet or was running from the law.

With the demands of building a law practice, I became a weekend skier until two years ago when I entered semi-almost retirement. Now, I ski almost every day, making the most of my “dual citizenship” with a Snowbird-Alta season pass. Predictably, our children’s lives were dominated by skiing. We never forced or encouraged them, except maybe with the candy I’d buy at the 7-Eleven at the bottom of Little Cottonwood Canyon. They just took to it.

Our son, Marcus, skis professionally—photos of him frequently appear on magazine covers and in galleries, including this one. (You can learn to carve turns like Marcus Caston by following these six basic steps.) He created the film series Return of the Turn and co-founded Party Beach Ski Camp. Our daughter, Rosie, once qualified for the U.S. Ski Team’s development squad before an injury shifted her path. Undeterred, she earned a Ph.D. in biomedical engineering and recently graduated from medical school at the University of Utah. She still skis with grace and joy whenever she can, though her turns may be fewer as she begins a seven-year neurosurgery residency in Madison, Wisconsin.

I’ve skied many iconic runs worldwide—the Hahnenkamm at Kitzbühel, Birds of Prey at Beaver Creek, Great Scott at Snowbird—but none were more thrilling than that first day at Mt. Southington, shuffling out of the red barn with my rented skis. In 1967, I didn’t want to leave, and neither did I in 2025.

So why should you care about Mt. Southington? Because it’s a place built on caring, maintained by people who prioritize the joy of skiing. In an era when so many ski areas are absorbed by large corporations, Mt. Southington remains devoted to providing a quality experience and nurturing a love of skiing, just as it did for me 57 years ago.

Jay Dougherty, the general manager, embodies this commitment. Managing a ski area is a Herculean task, but he handles it with the finesse of an orchestral maestro. The facilities are modern, well-kept, and welcoming. The beginner hill where I once struggled is now equipped with terrain-based learning to ease newcomers’ fears. It’s a place where tradition meets progress, and the passion for skiing continues to thrive.

When I revisited, I didn’t just take a few runs. I stayed, soaking in the magic. And when it was finally time to go, I took one last look at the beginner hill, remembering the enchantress who sparked my lifelong passion for skiing. As I drove away, proudly wearing my new Mt. Southington hat, I knew that this place, like so many local ski hills, is the heartbeat of skiing in America.