Spirit of the Hills

We were walking through our Park City neighborhood on a gorgeous midsummer morning. Perhaps it was the bracing air at 7,000 feet or the inspiring views of the Wasatch Mountains. Whatever the reason, my wife Elaine had a sudden insight. “We should have Kayla’s Bat-Mitzvah right here!”

The main subject during our neighborhood stroll was where and how to celebrate our younger daughter’s impending milestone, the coming-of-age ceremony that marks the beginning of a girl’s religious responsibility in the Jewish faith. Our firstborn, Karli, had the customary service and festivities in Savannah, where we live most of the year. Three years ago, we welcomed dozens of out-of-town guests, our immediate families, distant relatives and scores of local friends and acquaintances in a weekend’s worth of celebration. For Kayla, we wanted to do something more eclectic, more spiritual, more personal.

The notion of a family trip to Israel was entertained and then ultimately abandoned as chancy. We briefly considered going to Spain, for no logical reason other than it seemed so unusual. We mulled a return to our Massachusetts roots for the affair, but realized the impracticality. Elaine’s suggestion was ideal. After a look at the long-range calendar to find an appropriate Saturday when we knew we’d be out West, it seemed a fait accompli. And so we gathered together on New Year’s Day, Saturday the first of January, 2005, a New England family that had relocated to coastal Georgia and then convened for a Utah Bat-Mitzvah. It only made perfect sense.

The germination of the idea had taken place the previous winter. Though our attendance at religious services is sporadic at best, we were intrigued by a sign in the lift line at Deer Valley Resort one late December day. It said: “Shabbat Services—3 p.m. at Sunset Cabin.” We arrived at the appointed hour to a cozy slopeside cabin some 9,000 feet above sea level. It was there we met the “Skiing Rabbi,” Josh Aaronson, spiritual leader of Park City’s lone synagogue, known as Har Shalom, which translates literally to “Mountain of Peace.” Josh is originally from Philadelphia, but brought his family to Park City after a several-year stint at a congregation in Perth, Australia. Clearly this was not your run-of-the-mill clergyman. There were roughly 30 attendees at the half-hour service at Sunset Cabin, locals and vacationers from around the nation who, like Elaine and me, were drawn to the novelty of attending a Shabbat service in ski boots and Gore-Tex.

We joined Har Shalom as (way) out-of-town members. Rabbi Aaronson coached Kayla for nearly a year during weekly speakerphone sessions. When the big day arrived after a quiet New Year’s Eve, the four of us were joined by half a dozen family members, with whom we share our ski town home. There were an equal number of intrepid family friends who made their way to Utah from places like Texas, Colorado and New Mexico, and happily skied to services for the occasion. We also welcomed almost a dozen Park City “locals” in addition to the Rabbi; some synagogue congregants and several of the wonderful couples, families and individuals that we’d been fortunate to befriend over time.

The Sunset Cabin is threadbare and Spartan, with no electricity. But it shone brightly this New Year’s morning, frosted with a foot of fresh powder and bathed in sunlight. The outside temperature was below freezing, but the warmth emanating from this forested bungalow went well beyond the collective body heat of the two dozen witnesses of this simple but meaningful ceremony. With the 45-minute service completed and the congratulations proffered all around, the assemblage stepped outside into the cold, late-morning glare. We zipped back into our ski suits and adjusted hats, goggles and turtlenecks. Shortly after clicking into ski bindings, we were clinking celebratory glasses adjacent to a roaring fire at a base lodge luncheon. It was a stellar conclusion to a lovely life event.

No self-respecting soon-to-be-13-year-old will forgo a bona-fide Bat Mitzvah bash, and our daughter is no exception. Like we did a few years back for Karli’s soirée, we took over a club in Savannah for a big party. The entire seventh grade class was invited, and with perhaps 20-odd adults chaperoning 80 hormonal middle school kids, a fine time—well at least a memorable time—was had by all.

Kayla loved the party, with the gifts, the games and the attendant hoopla. But long after memories of her fancy new dress, the dancing and DJ are gone, when the presents are forgotten, outgrown or relegated to a keepsake box somewhere in a utility closet, she’ll remember the ceremony itself, held in intimacy at a rustic cabin on a ski hill.

Our desire to plan and execute such an unorthodox service might strike some traditionalists as strange. But the rationale was simple. One of our favorite family songs is Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide,” an evocative ballad about love and change. The lyric, “But time makes you bolder, even children get older and I’m getting older too,” has a certain resonance for my wife and me, particularly as our younger child prepared for her religious “adulthood.”

At the song’s outset, vocalist Stevie Nicks sings, “And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills.” As her life unfolds, Kayla will doubtless reflect back on the snow covered hills herself, on the first day of the year she turned 13, leaving childhood behind. She’ll remember chanting and reading from the ancient texts that define our people, witnessed by a small group of intimates. She’ll reflect fondly on that rustic log cabin tucked deep into the quiet whiteness of the Utah woods, surrounded by family and close friends. The memory, like the love of her parents, will be sweet and indelible.

Part-time Parkite Joel Zuckerman has written for more than 80 publications besides this one, including Sports Illustrated, GOLF and Continental. His third book, titled “Misfits on the Links,” will be released this spring.