Near the western edge of Calgary stands a legacy. From a distance you can easily see a tall tower, standing at the edge of a hill. Jutting out from it are several ramps, whose purpose the tower supports. The slope of the hill is dotted with Ts, row after row of them with a function that’s hard to discern from a distance. The entire hill is snow-covered, glistening white, especially at night when the lights flood the landscape making the whole place shine out across the city.

High atop the hill, a spot of colour on a stark background, stands a Canada flag.

Canada Olympic Park.

This park was the home of several events—bobsleigh, ski jumping, some skiing—during the 1988 Winter Olympics. It has always been there, visible from so many places in the city, yet I’d never been up there. Until yesterday.

As part of our explorations while we eagerly await winter, we ventured up to the park to watch a freestyle skiing competition. COP, as it’s affectionately known, is a popular destination for skiers who don’t want to head too far out of the city to get a few runs in. It’s a great place for lessons, or so my husband says, as this is where he learned to ski.

One of the first things I noticed at my new job was one of the digital signs in the building promoting a family ski night at the park in mid-January. “We should go!” I thought, and then thought better of it. I haven’t skied for years. Years. I dread to think what the experience would be like now. (Or maybe I just dread making a fool of myself in front of new co-workers.)

We’ve tossed around the idea of going. It’s cheap, so if I fall flat on my face I can always head inside and attempt to swallow my pride along with some hot chocolate and an apple turnover. It also seems like a good option for introducing Connor to skiing. But, oh lordy, it just seems like such an undertaking.

And then, Saturday afternoon. There we were, all three of us out together walking the dog. We crossed the field near our house, dodging stubborn chunks of snow determined to last until the next snowfall. I chased Connor, then raced him, several times over, to toddler-selected finish lines. The air was brisk – refreshing but not finger-freezing cold. It felt…alive. Vibrant.

Unprompted, my husband brought up the ski night. He seemed hesitant, just as I had been. But then my word for the year came back to me.

We could choose not to go, I said, and say we’ll do it another time. But when? We could easily end up living here for years, never doing any of the things I’m looking forward to so much. Shouldn’t we go now, when the opportunity is there, accessible and inexpensive?

So we’re going.

Wish me luck. Or, at the very least, that I don’t break a leg.