by GEORGIA MARTIN
What’s brewin’ here in Federal Hill is that I am busy packing for my annual ski trip to Colorado tomorrow (a boondoggle, since my husband goes there for a yearly convention and we get most of it paid for.)

My friends make fun of me and ask: ‘Why would you want to go to more cold weather in January?’ They could just as well be asking: ‘Why would you leave, when there’s plenty of skiing in Federal Hill?’

Well, okay that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It aint’ Aspen. I’ll get to the Federal Hill skiers in a second.

But the reason I leave here to ski is, for one thing, the Rocky Mountains in the winter are so incredibly beautiful. They’ve got the whitest snow, smoothing the distant ragged peaks against the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Close by, soft mounds of powder sit gracefully on the thousands of perfect spruce trees along the trails, reminding me every year of those trees we had on our train sets as kids.

I didn’t start skiing until my late 30s. I figured it would be a fun family sport for my 5 and 8 -year-old sons and, boy, was I right. We drove up to Ski Liberty the very first time and took group lessons, them in the Kiddie Ski School, me with the frightened grownups. I don’t think anyone in my family even got off the bunny slope that first season, but we got hooked, and from then on when the boys got a half day from school for teachers’ meetings, I’d pick them up and head straight to the slopes. We’d ski all afternoon without the crowds that clog the lift lines and plow carelessly into you on the weekends.

Then one year we went to Breckinridge, Colorado and found out what it was like to ski on trails that lasted for miles, with high-speed lifts and restaurants on the mountain where you stop on your way down, set your skis on end, and grab the yummiest soup or stew you ever tasted until it’s time to click the skis back on and continue down another astonishingly beautiful trail. And that was the end of our Ski Liberty trips, though we remain ever grateful for its proximity, for else how would we now know the absolute joy of communing with nature in one of its most breathtaking settings?

Getting gnarly in Federal Hill

This new column is about Federal Hill, where I’ve lived in or near for 30 years. So now I’d better shift the scene of this snow saga to my own south Baltimore neighborhood, where people do ski. When the snow sticks around here, there’s always someone chugging past on cross country skis down our tree-lined streets. In fact, there was a rather elderly looking man on cross country skis at the top of Federal Hill during the big snowstorm a few Saturdays ago.

Hordes of 20-somethings were hanging out up there with six-packs of beer, some with 40-ounce bottles clutched in their hands, and they were chanting for him to ski down the treacherous side of the Hill facing the harbor. It must have seemed like a terrific idea to those who were, as I call it, “speaking Budweiser” at the time, but cross country skis aren’t designed for downhill and the gentleman was no spring chicken. What’s more, the hill wasn’t coated enough with snow since most of it was blowing sideways into our faces.

The man smiled and waved at the throngs as he, wisely, passed along horizontally and safely over Federal Hill. And, so, they turned their attention to a much younger man who, strangely, was up there on a road bike in the fierce storm. They were trying to goad him into biking down the hill, and he clearly wasn’t as wise, because he turned to do just that. The crowd went wild and I found myself stopping in fascination to watch, and then my fist was in the air, and I was yelling “GO! GO! GO!” with the rest of them.

And head down, he did, first pointing directly down toward Key Highway, and we cheered wildly, but after just a few feet, reality struck and he turned his bike sideways and stopped. The crowd got quiet as he gingerly walked his bike downhill, perpendicular to the hard pavement below. And then they started to boo.

I really wanted to boo, too, because we were poised to see an impossible feat, a bike flying down historic Federal Hill in a freezing storm! Instead, maturity kicked in and I continued along my way, leaving the 20-somethings to their beers and fun, while I happily returned to my home without the need to call 911 for some poor biker who would have been splashed all over the pavement if their wishes had prevailed.

I’ve got to get back to my packing now; long underwear, sweaters, ski pants, socks, and jeans, those $2 hand and toe heaters that make all the difference and maybe my insurance card, in case I fly down a hill I should have walked down sideways.

When I get back I’ll tell you more about what’s brewin’ in Federal Hill.