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A Swiss Tradition That’s Non-Negotiable
Every winter, we pack up our lives for a week and embark on a journey that defies all logic, especially to a Swiss mind. Driving 6–9 hours to Mammoth for our skiing fix is not just a trip, it’s a necessity for us as SoCal Swiss. Snow is in our DNA. Sure, back in Switzerland, we could cross the Alps three times in the same amount of time. But here in the U.S., distances are a different thing! So here we go, every year, we load up the car like we’re moving.
Packing for a ski trip is like preparing for an arctic expedition. Bulky jackets, helmets, gloves, goggles, and layers and layers of clothes all fighting for space in the car. Then comes the food, a whole week’s worth, just in case we get snowed in and cut off from civilization. As we leave the sunny, palm-lined streets of Southern California, we’re still in shorts and t-shirts, looking absurdly out of place for a family supposedly bound for snow. And then, boom! The mountains come into view, with their snow-covered slopes.
We arrive at the hotel and are greeted with a heater that seems determined to broil us alive. We unpack our overstuffed car into a room that’s too small for all this chaos, and there is no time to waste, we get ready to hit the slopes. Dressing in “Michelin Man style” with that heater blasting is its own challenge. Then we rent gear: skis, poles, and ski boots. Those boots? Like medieval torture devices! Squeezing parts of the foot and calf into these things is an ordeal that tests my patience every year.
I find myself on all fours, trying to wrestle my kids’ skinny feet into their boots. When I finally succeed, my tween flashes me a cheeky grin. “Mom, you’re the best!… sometimes.” He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I shoot him the look. He laughs and quickly adds, “Okay, okay… most of the time.” His mischievous smile says it all. My teen offers no such compliments. But his face says what he’s thinking: Yeah, definitely not right now. Let’s just get out there.
Finally, we’re on the slopes. My tween races ahead like he’s training for the Olympics, skis carving into the snow with ease. My teen, more cautious, takes slower, deliberate turns. That’s when I hear it: “Mom, I love you! Can you ski behind me?” He looks back at me with that sweet, irresistible grin, and my heart melts.
As I follow my kids, my inner mama bear comes out. Every time another skier dares to cut between us, I feel the urge to shout, Are you crazy? Do you really want to mess with a mama bear and her cubs? I settle for a sharp glare instead. Even on skis, mama bear instincts are real. Protecting them on these slopes feels as natural as breathing. No one gets between me and my boys!
Meanwhile, my husband is the hero of the slopes. Camera in hand, he skis with ease, capturing the most epic moments of the day. Whether it’s our tween’s daring jumps or our teen’s steady progress, he’s there, documenting it all. Occasionally, though, he follows a jump a little too enthusiastically, filming the ground up close as he crashes in a heap, leaving behind a moaning husband and a cellphone sliding elegantly down the slope.
Lunch on the slopes is always an adventure. The kids devour their burgers, treating the salad, tomato, and pickles as mere decoration. “I’ll eat it later,” they claim. But in the very next breath, they’re done: “I’m not hungry anymore. Can I have a sundae for dessert?”
By the end of the afternoon, we’re back in the dreaded ski boot removal phase. There I am again, on all fours, wrestling their boots off, face-to-face with sweaty, stinky feet. But so far, I have always succeeded, no one has had to sleep in their ski boots yet!
After skiing, we stumble back to our room, starving. The kitchenette becomes our salvation as we devour the food we brought as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks. Bellies full, my husband and I collapse onto our beds for a few minutes of recovery. On some afternoons, the kids still have energy left to go sledding outside, giving my husband and me a few rare moments of peace and quiet.
When they return, we all head to the jacuzzi. The kids dash outside in their bathing suits to grab snow, while our sore legs soak in the much-needed warmth. Even climbing the staircase to the jacuzzi feels like a mountain trek, as the thin air at this altitude reminds us that it takes days to adjust.
Evenings are spent recharging as a family. We play games, watch movies, and argue over whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Of course, I sneak in moments to write my stories while the day’s chaos is still fresh in my mind. Day after day, our legs grow more sore, our energy wanes, and my stories grow longer.
On the last day, the packing chaos begins. Bags, ski gear, helmets, and random stuff are scattered everywhere. My husband and I are in full-on packing mode, trying to fit everything back into the car like a game of 3D Tetris. Meanwhile, my tween and teen are sprawled out on the bed, headphones on, eyes glued to their iPhones. “Do you need help?” they ask, without actually moving. This, apparently, is their idea of “helping.”
But as I look out at the slopes one last time, I remind myself: the miles, the chaos, the insane amount of gear, it’s all worth it. Because this is what we do. We’re SoCal Swiss, and skiing is in our genes.