It’s that time of year the Pagans and Druids used to refer to as “Imbolc” — the heart of mid-winter. Fact is, after a triad of ski-family firsts over the last weekend, all resulting in considerable Ibuprofen and icepacking for ol’ dad, a guy can’t help but feel more mid-life than Medieval. Seize ups and spasms aside, last weekend’s parental adventure has if anything proven that the true spirit of skiing blazes bright here on Planet Whitewater, even while a 42-year-old’s dream of shredding Ymir Peak is officially flickering. Faintly. Like, basically out. Regardless, for rockstar or seniorly shredder, this neck of the Kootenay woods always offers up all-time skiing experiences. Cliché as it is, there are memories of a lifetime to be had on any given day.  Cases in point: last Thursday night under the lights at Salmo. A first for dad and the seven-year-old. Even with the clattery ice and grassy patches, the smiles for both were earstrap-to-earstrap on the hill’s formidable T-bar (despite the unavoidable lower back-n-butt-burn experienced whilst riding with someone half your height.) The sight of the kid trying his darndest to ski switch in the shadows, his ski-coat zipper loaded with a dozen Whitewater day passes whipping him in the lips, rendered true joy.  Same thing Friday afternoon for the two-and-a-half year old’s very first day on the boards. As any parent will attest, the handle tow’s no place for the weak of core or patience. Even while cradling the not-so-little one in both arms, her skis jabbing Daddio in the nether-regions and prerequisite hoola-hoop firmly gripped in mouth, the same happiness ensued as the arduous evening before. Then, Saturday. With a bluebird day illuminating the resort and its famous super-cirque in full spectacle, the entire clan made its first-ever family-of-four trek up to the mountain. Mom, a Trail girl born and bred at Red, made her first turns with her son, while dad and the toddler divvied up a pre-tour Summit Burger with buddies, parked next to the pub. Go figure, three hours later after Ma and munchkins had buzzed back home in the beater, Dad skinned to Ymir’s summit — another first — with a few other near-40-somethings leading the way. Popping through a blanket of afternoon cloud for the final 200 yards, the cumulous carpet stretched from horizon to horizon, brimming just below the peaks of the Purcells, Kokanee Glacier and the Valhallas. No peak shredding for Pops though. Found a fresh, far less foreboding line. But still took a header in the bowl. Another day. Another dream. The Pagans got it right. We’re in the heart of it. Say, pass the pills would ya? — DARREN DAVIDSON