If the day is cold and clear in Napa, I think -- it's a good day to ski. I can feel the sun on my face; my breath is suspended in the chill morning air -- a glorious day to ski.

It was just such a day when my young husband and I took a four-day trip to Alpine Meadows. There were four of us who were scheduled for all-day lessons, though both husbands could have easily been instructors. Skiing with an instructor had its merits, no waiting in lift lines, plus the possibility of skiing in virgin snow.

The other wife was really good at posing. Leaning casually on a ski pole, gazing off into space, she looked every inch the expert skier. Her outfit was a tight-fitting silver number, one of many numbers she had packed. Every rest stop was a photo op against a backdrop of Lake Tahoe.

The men wore cowboy hats and neck scarves and they loved to yell, "Hoopla!" as they raced down a hill or jumped and bumped through moguls. I was just learning how to ski moguls and surprisingly, I liked the rhythm of skiing through bumps. Looking down, I saw a bulky black parka; I was probably pregnant. I was always pregnant. I saw baggy black pants and hand-me-down skis that felt like unforgiving slabs right off a redwood tree. My intermediate ability had not yet earned me a pair of new laminated skis. I wore over-sized goggles. Better to see than look gorgeous. I could pose as well as the next person, but the effect wasn't quite right. Anyway, up here the lake, pristine in its clarity, was the star of any photo opportunity.

The instructor, a cocky little blonde from Austria, eyed me with suspicion. His face was the color of an oiled hickory nut; his eyes were as blue as the lake. He too wore a tight-fitting number topped with a neck scarf. The typical Arian god stood before us, flicking his pole toward me and declaring that if I could keep up, I could stay in his class. (If I couldn't, he would shoot me.)

His name was Hans. Ya, Hans! Last one down the hill is a big fat loser!

Hans led off toward the ski lift. Our two-man lift cut cleanly through a stand of white fir trees. We could almost touch the winter chickadees as they darted through branches, displacing showers of silver dust. I loved Lake Tahoe. I would be happy just to lie on a warm granite boulder all day, watching wispy clouds float by. Perhaps I would live here some dayŠ

I had brought apprehension to the mountain, and when we reached the summit, it was complete. We skied single file along a ridge with a clear view to Sacramento on the right and the lake below us on the left. Then Hans stopped and puffing himself up to a full five feet, hands on hips, he announced, "If vee had von the voar, I vould haff been governor of Caleeforneeya!"

We all laughed at that one. That would be the day, when an Austrian became governor of California. Dream on, buddy.

"If the young lady, (grinning at me) can make it down here, vee vill all go down here!" In other words, he was trying to get rid of me. I thought I could do it, but it wouldn't be pretty. A steep narrow canyon with about a foot of new snow waited. The skis tipped nicely over the precipice making one neatly carved turn. The rest was a blur of skis, poles, and snow - until there was no more hill. HaHaHa. I could hear the little Nazi laughing.

Ah, there's nothing like the smell of snow in your hair -- your ears -- your eyes - your goggles. The skis and poles are ok, nothing hurt. Well, that wasn't too bad. I'll do it tomorrow standing up. Looking up, I saw the little group move on down the ridge to an easier descent. I brushed myself off and skied toward the groomed trail. The rest was a piece of cake with six inches of powdered sugar. I was waiting at the bottom when they appeared. The other wife had had a rough time negotiating the moguls.

"I vas chust teasing you!" he laughed. Ya, pal, and I've been down here waiting for you for ten minutes.

It took a few years to earn my skis, but after that I remember the feeling of flying, loving the speed, the rhythm of connecting turns, dropping off a precipice into new-fallen snow and laughing.