I'll Never Forget the First Car I Drove To Go Skiing

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17-06-2025

I rose to a loud, earth-shaking rumble. Had the Juan de Fuca tectonic plate finally slid? Was I about to get a real-life lesson in geology? I raced to my parents' room, encountering a different, albeit much less dramatic, disaster. From there, my memory becomes foggy, dissolving into brief, dim flashes. Loud winds and the night sky. A police spotlight trained on the dangling remnants of the tree that, after being hit by a mighty gust, had snapped and knocked the chimney of our house clean off. But in the driveway, at the base of the tree, stood the family ski chariot: a 1995 metallic blue Toyota Land Cruiser, miraculously untouched. The tree's thick trunk only hung a foot or so above the car—or, as we called it, "the truck." Apparently, the Land Cruiser wasn't done with the Greenwoods quite yet. The ride, a successor to another, older Land Cruiser, was our primary mountain rig. From the rain-slick streets of Seattle, it would mow through ice and slush, carrying us into the Cascades for a reprieve from the glum coastal winters. It could go the distance, too, traveling to Fernie, Big Sky, and, in the summer, Mt. Hood.This piece is part of POWDER's Summer of Ski Nostalgia content series. Stay tuned in daily for more nostalgic articles, and keep an eye out for the upcoming Summer of Ski Nostalgia badge to identify future content.You can also view all of POWDER's summer nostalgia content here.Want to keep up with the best stories and photos in skiing? Subscribe to the new Powder To The People newsletter for weekly updates.
When I was young, I'd bundle up in the backseat, only waking halfway through the drive at our traditional pitstop: McDonald's. Outside, it was still dark—my dad, in true archetypal ski dad form, usually insisted on hitting the road as early as possible—but instead of a hot drink, I'd order a Frappuccino and some sausage burritos. Then, after chowing down, I'd somehow fall back asleep, regaining consciousness in the ski area parking lot, probably with a stomach ache. Sometime after the tree fell, I started learning to drive. My dad had spent years and years carting my brother and me to the mountains. We were ready to take the mantle and give him a much-needed break. At that moment, driving wasn't yet a chore, and when I learned to weave through Seattle's tight streets, nervousness quickly gave way to excitement. I could now go wherever I wanted, including the mountains, provided I shared with my parents a somewhat vague idea of my plans. During one of the first evenings that I could drive without adult supervision, I headed to a bonfire. On the way home, I filled the truck with as many other kids as it could fit, enjoying being a designated driver more than I ever would at any other point in my life. I felt useful. I assume my dad did, too, when he spent the winter weekends instilling a life-long love of skiing in his boys with the Land Cruiser as his accomplice.
Then, it was my partner. We rode with friends, and we rode alone. On those solitary missions to the mountain and back, a cup of coffee from the ski lodge would give me just enough energy on the way home. The radio, which connected to an antenna that sprung from the Cruiser's hood at the touch of a button, helped, too. Over time, as I became a pilot rather than a passenger, stickers from the burritos I continued to eat appeared around the interior. One that read 'beef' got planted in the middle of the steering wheel. My parents never peeled off the stickers, but the markings of a teenage driver weren't always harmless. When a beer can was left in the trunk by one of my friends, I received a stern talking to. The truck also dredged up old, familiar routines, even as I grew. A few years after I got my driver's license, when I was older but still a teenager, my dad happily took over when I became sleepy as we made the nine-hour drive back from Canada at night. Behind the wheel, he settled back into the rhythm he and the truck shared, cruising through the dark with his passengers dozing. To this day, I still joke that I owe my dad several lifetimes' worth of rides to the mountain.
Those future rides with Dad will have to happen in a different car. The outsized rigs that spout thick plumes of sweet-smelling gasoline are, for many skiers, myself included, a touchstone. Still, the march of practicality and technology would, as it does for most everything, make the truck and all its quirks eventually disappear from our lives. At around 250,000 miles, the Land Cruiser developed a rod knock—requiring a too-costly engine repair—and we said goodbye. When I came home from college one year, I met the replacement: a slick, quiet Honda CR-V that still performed admirably in the snow. My parents' decision was easy to understand. Sentimentality works great for a vintage pair of jeans—less so for aging vehicles that chip away at your bank account.Thankfully, I know the truck found a good home. My parents sold it to a company that restores Land Cruisers, and my dad recalled the excitement of the buyer. Somewhere, then, out on the backroads, I imagine it crawling through the mud or snow, doing exactly what it was built to do—and, maybe, taking a different family to the ski hill. I also take comfort in the fact that the old machine has better luck than most cars, let alone people. When the next windstorm hits, I bet it'll be parked in just the right place.This piece is part of POWDER's Summer of Ski Nostalgia content series. Stay tuned in daily for more nostalgic articles, and keep an eye out for the upcoming Summer of Ski Nostalgia badge to identify future content.You can also view all of POWDER's summer nostalgia content here.
I'll Never Forget the First Car I Drove To Go Skiing first appeared on Powder on Jun 17, 2025