It’s never too late no matter how old you are and there’s no better time than now to learn to ski or snowboard. Two of our writers went out on their own paths this season in pursuit of doing just that, and, in the process, gained insight and experience into the cult of snow-sliding fanatics.
It’s hard for someone in North Idaho to admit, but I gave up on Ski Hill Life a couple of seasons ago. It was not for lack of effort or investment in all things ski-related. Maybe I just assumed my Norwegian genes would give me some inherent ability. But after several years of trying to learn to ski, it was clear only bone strength and indifference to public humiliation had been passed down through my generational bloodlines.
Someone, probably a sadist, suggested I try snowboarding. There’s a pretty short list of things not suited for middle-aged moms to pick up as hobbies, but I think snowboarding and bullfighting are in the same uninsurable category. (Whereas divorce and CrossFit seem very popular, both of which I hear are less painful than snowboarding.)
Optimistic that I could meet my deductible with another ER visit, or in search of closure on ski-hill hopes, I scheduled a snowboarding lesson with the experts at Schweitzer Mountain Resort. I arrived over-caffeinated and ready to lie about my athletic experience. I find it best to keep expectations low and briefly considered pretending to suffer from chronic vertigo or a pirate leg or something, for there could be no other explanation to my inherent lack of snow-bility.
In the days and hours leading up to my lesson, I had been warned by various citizens about which of my limbs would snap first. I shared these reasonable fears with my instructor, Matt, who calmly assured me that lessons greatly reduce such a risk, even while showing me how to protect said limbs in the unlikely event of a yard sale.
I don’t know if it was the time we spent sitting in the snow talking about the mechanics of a snowboard or the sunshine on my seasonally pale face, but something made me less afraid and more willing to try. Perhaps faith in my instructor or my body’s ability to heal. I stood up on that snowboard and I tried with all my might to translate his words into commands directed at my stubborn and less-than-nimble body.
It listened. Not only did it listen, but it… stayed upright. No one was more surprised, or elated, than I. In a history of athletic talents related mostly to being able to eat food while sportsing, balance and coordination have long eluded me. Maybe Matt had some fairy-snow-dust he sprinkled on me (called “years of teaching experience”), but by the end of that first run, he had me making turns in at least two letters of the alphabet, and maybe a letter or two I made up.
After two runs, we left the bunny hill for higher country— because I asked if we could. And this is the most remarkable part: I don’t think I ever skied a day in my life that was not terrifying and defined by me white-knuckling my way down a slope. And here I was, on a snowboard of all things, grinning my way down the mountain, with only the occasional flashing of my life before my eyes. Maybe I could start wearing cute après-ski sweaters after all!
There were so many gifts in that single morning for me. The idea that I could get Vitamin D in January was among them, and that I can again participate in grocery aisle chat about snow conditions like a contributing member of Pacific Northwest outdoor society. Perhaps the most wonderful, however, was the redemption of all my years of thinking myself incapable.
Ammi Midstokke extends her gratitude to the crew at Schweitzer for their support in an unexpected therapeutic experience. She notes that a season’s pass still costs less than a season of actual therapy, which is exactly how she’ll justify it to her husband.
