Instead of metal-edge, lightweight skis with high-tech bindings, climbing skins, and plastic boots we had skinny lignostone-edged wooden skis with three-pin bindings, and leather boots with way too much flex and no insulation. If we couldn’t find army-surplus climbing skins, we improvised by lashing rope under our skis to help us climb up the mountains. Modern equipment or ancient, they both work, the skill level required for the old gear though is like expecting a Gen Xer to be able to get into standard shift ’57 Chevy and drive away the first time.

And don’t get me started on clothing. Army surplus wool was fine, no designer clothing for us!

I wasn’t a member of the “ski to die” crowd, the ambitious group of backcountry-ski trail blazers who pioneered routes throughout the High Peaks. I admired their exploits but was happy to concentrate on exploring the smaller peaks and valleys outside the High Peaks Wilderness.

My first winter in the Adirondacks, 1972-73, I honed my alpine ski skills by working on the ski patrol at Mount Whitney, the long-defunct ski area owned by the Lake Placid Club. My cross-country ski skills came along slowly in the succeeding years. One winter I had an epiphany when skiing with friends Bob Rottner and Jim Sausville up to Panther Pond in the St. Regis Canoe Area. As I cautiously started down to Upper St. Regis Lake, suddenly Jim zoomed down past me on a steep slope. All the way back Jim effortlessly carved smooth telemark turns, and I said to myself, WOW, you can ski like that on skinny x-country skis? I wanted to ski like that, but I never acquired Jim’s skill level. I did, however, become what I called a survival skier. I wasn’t pretty or particularly graceful, but I could get down safely and usually without falling, carving a couple of telemark turns along the way.

Lang Elliot, Adirondack chipmunk expert, and I would buy an afternoon ticket at Mt. Pisgah and practice the ancient art of telemark skiing on our wooden skis. Someone once said you become an expert telemark skier after you fall 10,000 times. I think we fell at least 5,000 times — on those afternoons alone. Of course, with modern equipment you can learn to telemark ski with less than 1,000 falls. Heck, you don’t even need to learn how to telemark turn. With modern equipment you just use alpine technique.

St. Regis, Scarface, Shingle Bay, Jenkins and many more mountains off the beaten path were explored by my ski buddies and me in those days. One trip still stands out in my mind.

I was skiing with a crew from Paul Smith’s College. If memory serves me (and let’s face it, it doesn’t very well.) Craig Smith, Ken West and perhaps Mike Rechlin were on the trip. We used to ski today’s Jack Rabbit Trail. In those days it was an old truck road that saw little traffic from either skiers or trucks. This time we left Lake Placid, skied up to the intersection with the McKenzie Mountain Trail and decided to ski down to Ray Brook where the trail came out behind the DEC Headquarters.

It was a typical cold winter day with the snow cover, if not abundant, more than adequate. I took the lead and started down the trail. It started gradually and gently dropping elevation for the first half a mile. Then suddenly it got steeper. At first, I was gliding effortlessly. Then suddenly the speed increased, and I was going faster than I wanted to be. My heart rate picked up as I sped down the narrow trail trying desperately to slow down. As the cold air rushed past, my nose ran as fast as I skied.

I was in the skinny-ski downhill position, slightly hunched over, knees deeply bent, arms hanging low, hands by my ankles. No fancy technique, just near panic and hanging on for survival. I put both poles to one side and started dragging them to slow down. No luck. I was maintaining control, but just barely.

The adrenaline pulsed through my veins as the terrain got steeper. The trail wound through the woods and abruptly crossed a seasonal streambed. Thoughts of broken bones passed through my mind as my ski tips dipped down into the deep ditch. Feeling like I was going at the speed of sound I came up out of the dip airborne. Miraculously I landed upright feeling like I had been shot out of a cannon. Although extremely proud, I had no time to congratulate myself because I continue to careen at breakneck speed.

There were two more ditches, one right after another. Boom, boom. Now, it was until a few years later at the 1980 Winter Olympics that Al Michaels made his famous call, “Do you believe in miracles?” He could have just as easily made it that afternoon, because by the grace of God I made it through all three ditches, caught air on each and never fell.

Finally with pulse pounding I pulled to a stop, caught my breath, and after a long pause, without too much thought yelled up the hill, “It’s all clear. Come on through.”

We all know hindsight is 20/20, but until I saw my three colleagues strewn across the ditches with hats, skis, mittens, ski poles and miscellaneous ski detritus scattered about that I realized perhaps I should have qualified my comment.

I saw Craig Smith recently and asked him if he remembered that ski down from the Jack Rabbit Trail to Ray Brook. A smile slowly spread across his face, he gave his trademark chuckle and without hesitation he said, “You mean the ole ‘Come-on-through trail?'”