I noticed the trim, older lady with short salt-and-pepper hair wearing a brown jogging suit and white t-shirt that stated, “Go in the Snow”. She stood alone as she waited to board a plane at DFW airport on her way to Gunnison, Colorado one January morning. I, too, waited to board that 757 for a week-long ski trip with my husband to celebrate our anniversary. With one carry-on bag, a black fanny pack, and a baby blue ski jacket, she exuded an aura of peace, yet also a sense of confidence. Her body language defined contentment, and her very existence radiated a relaxed smile. 

Matt and I were in Boarding Group 5, so I had time to contemplate the story behind this not-so-stereotypical older woman who wasn’t boarding the plane yet either. “Is she from around here or connecting? Is Colorado home? Hmmm . . . that ski jacket and that slogan on her tee . . .” 

Finally boarding, I entered the plane and headed to my assigned seat, which was 16A by the window. When I got there, I couldn’t believe who was loading luggage in the overhead bin above 16C—it was her.

At age 77, Connie was also on her way to ski at Crested Butte. She didn’t learn to ski until she was 50, after her second husband died and the four kids she’d raised as a single mom were grown. Discovering how much she loved the sport, she joined a group for those 50 and over that enjoy traveling and participating in like-minded activities. Crested Butte was the last stop in a travel stint that had begun three weeks earlier in her hometown near Chicago. She was meeting group members in Gunnison to ski for a week before returning home. Next month’s ski destination: Steamboat Springs.

Connie described her world travels in precise detail. She would’ve been a great candidate for the then popular television show “Fear Factor”—she’s eaten grubs skewered on a stick and roasted over an outdoor fire in a remote country. “I wanted to experience what was indigenous to the people,” she said. 

By the end of the flight, Matt and I weren’t so mesmerized by Connie’s adventures as by her passion for life. She didn’t just dream dreams, but acted upon them. She lived every day as if it were her last—not recklessly—but with appreciation for God’s gift of life and opportunities. Her life wasn’t problem free, and yet her eyes sparkled at the chance to arise each day. She wrapped her existence around the triune God via the Catholic faith, then dove into life with unbridled tenacity. Connie refused to be defined by the limitations of excuses, least of all age.

Three days later, as Matt and I waited at a local bus stop for a ride to the Nordic center, I heard a familiar voice. I turned and saw that blue jacket. Not recognizing us in ski attire, Connie walked by with a group headed toward the lifts. I didn’t call out; I couldn’t bear to interrupt her exuberant conversation. 

Our anniversary celebration was a fun vacation through travels and snow, but what we most remember about that trip is Connie. It was so refreshing to meet someone who grabbed the reins of life and lived it passionately, yet without compromising her faith. 

A quote from Hunter S. Thompson best describes our newfound friend:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

That was Connie.