Returning to Skiing at Eighty-Three: Hilary Bradt and Her Group of Seniors Take a Ski Trip in the Austrian Alps.

“You’re insane!” remarked Caroline the greengrocer brightly when I revealed I was going skiing. A typical reply since recently I had been out on walking aids following a hip surgery. Acquaintances from my sister’s circle were rather anxious: “How old are you? Eighty? I don’t think this is a smart move. You’ll fall and break something.” My brother, Andrew, 86, opted it was wiser not to tell anyone.

A Hidden Desire

For twenty years or more I’d had a half-buried wish to enjoy one more ski trip. One last taste of blue sky, chilly air and the exhilaration that follows finding yourself still intact at the bottom of a snow-covered slope. I was never much good, and it had been years since I last skied, but that was irrelevant. Now in my eighties, I wanted to find out if I was still capable. If it worked out, how about inviting Kate, my sister, part of our elderly ladies’ circle who encourage each other to join regular fitness events? Then I remembered that, during our younger days, my brother had accompanied me on the first time I went skiing. Sixty-seven years had passed, but my brother was skilled back then, so I included him in the plans. Penny, a friend, who is so absurdly young (claiming to be 67) that she doesn’t really count, was invited along and try her luck with the oldies and practise her German. Each of us worked to enhance our fitness levels, but skiing was a distant memory for at least 40 years.

Selecting the Resort

Seefeld, in Tirol near Innsbruck, was where we decided to go, as it has many snowy pastimes – assuming we’d survive our two-hour lesson on the first day (which, to be honest, was the extent of our alpine skiing) – and is wonderfully free of après-ski malarky. It draws in family groups rather than rowdy youth, and is characteristically Austrian, with onion-domed churches and chalet-type houses. We stayed at the welcoming, family-operated Hotel Helga and we dined somewhere new every night.

“We call this Kaiserwetter,” remarked our guide Janina when I noted we couldn’t believe our luck at waking each morning to clear blue skies, warm sun and lots of powder for the start of spring.

Everyone acted as if just to be excited, completely unafraid, as we took a bus to the winter sports zone. It was full of children and adults carrying skis and glowing with vitality. I thought I caught the assistant getting our ski gear showing skepticism at the situation.

I was sure I’d fall over as soon as I moved. But I didn’t. No one fell.

Our instructor Ulrich, who had been informed about our senior status, beamed valiantly as we stomped towards him. We were talking a bit too loudly, beaming widely, perhaps trying to postpone the time when we had to attach our boots to the skis. Privately, I felt certain I would tumble as soon as I moved. Yet I didn’t. None of us did. Our instructor showed great patience, giving us enough time at each stage of the lesson to gain in confidence.

Modern Skiing Advances

Current ski equipment is more user-friendly, I discovered – reduced in length, weight and featuring shaped ends – than the unwieldy, lengthy boards I remember from the 60s that always made me fall off the ski lift. We understood we wouldn’t be permitted on a any type of cable car, so expected to painstakingly climb the slope and descend, tumbling during the descent. It worked like that in the fifties. But here there was a fantastic contemporary contraption, a moving walkway, or moving walkway, that transported us easily to the top of the gentle beginners’ slope, 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 version of side-by-side turns. We were overjoyed. “That was just amazing!” said Andrew, who doesn’t usually exaggerate.

Other Winter Activities

Might we have endured a entire week of winter sports? Maybe, but the diverse pursuits found in the area was more attractive. Trails were available around various lakes, public transport allowing visits 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, my sister and I understood tobogganing. You dash after it, shoving the toboggan, then leap on and hurtle down on your stomach at velocities comparable to racing cars. Our guide offered reassurance. No cause for concern: we’d ride the sled and guide it using our feet. However, we were nervous. My brother opted out but we others persevered.

A fellow in a red jumpsuit skidded by shouting something over his shoulder about Kate.

As a 12-year-old it was exhausting hauling my father’s homemade toboggan up Gold Hill common in the rural area in our snowy childhood, and now in my eighties it was strenuous pulling a somewhat lighter sled ascending in oxygen-depleted air (the alpine hut, a customary high-altitude retreat, is at 1,410 metres) for almost 5 kilometers. I fell behind, muttering to myself about being too old for this. {The glühwein and Gulaschsuppe|The mulled wine and goulash soup|The warm