Ski Day
This last week, I went skiing for the first time this season. I love to ski. I’m a bluebird skier, meaning I only ski on bright, sunny days when the temperature isn’t too cold or so warm that the snow will melt. You could say I have “Princess and the Pea” tendencies. I picked a perfect day, checked out all the resorts and determined which one would probably be the least crowded while still having deep snow. I put all my gear in my car the night before and headed out for a perfect day. I left early so that I could make first tracks on the freshly groomed snow that looks like ribbons of corduroy.
I’ve been skiing since I was about 16. I haven’t skied for 42 years straight however. I skied a couple of times in high school. I skied a couple of times in college. Then I stopped. When I moved to Utah 16 years ago, I picked up skiing again. I loved going with my children when they were little. It reminded me of times my family ventured to the beach when I was younger. Now, I pretty much ski on my own. I don’t have many friends locally who ski. Those that do move a lot faster than I do. So I just plan days for myself.
The thing about skiing alone for me is that it can be a head game, particularly that first ski day. This year was no different. I pulled out the ski pants and put them on. I realized I needed to put them at their widest setting. I felt Judge Judy nudging me, reminding me that they didn’t need the widest setting last winter. I felt dismayed. Still, I got in my car and headed up to the mountain. When I arrived, I put on my ski boots. If you are a skier, you know what this adventure is like. If you aren’t a skier, I will just tell you: it’s awful. Ski boots are not comfortable. They are hard plastic. Added to the discomfort of putting on the boots is the challenge with your hands. As I try to stuff my feet into the boots, my fingers are freezing. I can’t wear gloves and put on boots at the same time because I just don’t have the dexterity. Plus there is the challenge that I am bending over my body in these pants that I don’t like, and everything feels squished and tight. By the time the boots were on, I felt pretty defeated. Still, it’s skiing! And by golly, I am going to head up to the mountain. At this point, my looser ski pants are starting to fall a bit. I feel a bit like a rapper or a plumber. I grab my pants and pull them up.
I carry my skis to the entry to the mountain and put them on. It feels weird putting on skis for the first time. I am hesitant to get moving, but I do. I get on the lift, and I am terrified. The lift doesn’t have a bar. Well, it has a bar I can bring down for my arms but nothing for my feet. So why bother? I cling to the lift as it rises, forgetting that I’ve been on ski lifts hundreds of times in the last 16 years. Suddenly, the lift stops. I am reminded of those tragic lift accidents you read about in the news occasionally. Today, up at lift level, the wind is blowing. My seat is shaking. I’m trying to remember if I told my children that I love them.
Then the lift starts moving again, and we are traveling up the mountain. I’m worried about when I get to the top. Will I remember how to disembark? I remember one time about 12 years ago. I accidentally flopped off the lift and landed head first. I was so embarrassed. Will I do that again? Well I haven’t done it in 12 years, so odds are good I’m going to be okay.
I get off the lift and look at the runs. I decide to take the very easiest one. It’s the greenest of the green. Ski runs are measured based on difficulty: Green (easy), Blue (intermediate), and Black (most difficult). I am generally I solid blue skier. But my first day of the season, I start out with the greens. As I glide down the mountain, my muscle memory takes over, and I’m doing just fine! I’m enjoying this experience even as my body reminds me that I didn’t move as much this past year. My summer challenges with stamina turned me into a bit of a sloth, well a bit of a sloth compared to my usual busyness. So, my legs started giving me feedback pretty early into my ski day. Between the pants, the lift, the feedback from my legs, and my general in-my-head-ness, I started to judge myself. I was telling myself that I didn’t belong on the mountain; I didn’t belong with the other “expert” skiers. Again I remind myself that I’ve skied so many times before, and I’ve loved it.
At this point you may be thinking, “Why the hell is she skiing if it’s such a freak out and judgement experience?” I started thinking that also. I remembered a time a long time ago, at least 55 years ago. I was a small child at the ocean with my mom. She was standing in the surf, holding me in front of her. As the waves approached, I screamed at what my 3-year-old ears perceived as a mind-blowing level, “Stop! No! Stop!” Then the wave smacked against me. The water was brisk and exhilarating. As the wave subsided, I yelled, “Again! Again!” Over the rest of the visit in the water as the next waves rose, I continued to provide the same ear-splitting screams for both the fear and the joy of the experience. Skiing for me is a lot like that.
After a couple of more runs, I stopped caring about the lift elevation. The corduroy was breaking up, and the snow was getting smoother. I started to eye the bottom of the blue runs. “I can do those too,” I told myself. But when I started to think about skiing on blue runs, my nerves started jangling all over again. When I opted to stay on the green ones, my Judge Judy slipped into high gear. “Oh come on! You’re such a loser staying on the green runs.” It was ugly. Finally, on my eighth lift ride up the mountain, another woman joined me on the lift. As soon as we left the boarding point, we started to chat. She told me that she used to ski all the time on the East Coast, but it had been over 20 years since her last ski experience. She was very nervous and had doubts about her abilities. I reassured her and told her that muscle memory will come back. I said, “Even after living 16 years in Utah, my first ski day of the season is challenging.” She responded with, “Oh I am so relieved! I am so glad I met you today!” Well that was all I needed to get myself on a blue run.
Once we hopped off the lift, we said our goodbyes. I headed toward the blue runs, and she headed down a green one. When I got to the first blue run, I noticed it wasn’t groomed. Nope, I wasn’t going down that hill. Would the next one be groomed? I was hopeful. When I got to the next run, it was groomed! What luck! It was also....black. Oops! What was I thinking? It took all my courage and sensibility to make the turn down the run. I remembered all my ski lessons of the past and all the instructions I had been given on navigation. I started tentatively and then I was zipping down (in my breakneck “grandmother” speed as my children like to refer to my skiing) the mountain. I remembered that I had told That One Guy (TOG) that I would be careful. Was this being careful? Suddenly I had a freak out. As I traversed down the hill, I let my skis turn up to slow me down. It took more effort than I thought it would, and I ended up a bit off trail in some powder. I was psyched out.
I sat there a minute. I focused on calming myself down. This wasn’t a big deal. I just had to back up and get myself back on the run. Suddenly I didn’t want to be on the run anymore. But it was a long time till spring when I would probably just be hiking this trail. I slowly moved backwards till I got to a point where I felt I could start skiing again. I remembered to stop and take a deep breath as I felt my nerves rise. I could do this. I have skills.
Well the fact that I’m typing is certainly proof that it all worked out. I made it down, and I made it back to the lift entry point. I skied a bit more that day, and I stuck to the green. Perhaps this week will be my blue adventure.
