The first time I went downhill skiing I was beyond nervous. There were no words to describe how I was feeling as I stood in the parking lot of the ski lodge; I could feel myself shaking in my boots. The mountains seemed too tall and standing in front of them I felt so tiny, so insignificant. I was bundled up in a marshmallowy parka, some snow pants with layers of sweatpants underneath, mismatched gloves, a tattered old scarf and a hat that didn’t quite fit right. I was beginning to wonder if it was even mine.
My two friends and I began sloshing into the freshly fallen snow toward the chalet. It was wooden, with a stream of thick gray smoke flowing through the chimney. Just looking at it made me warm. I knew that hot chocolate wasn’t too far away and that was always a comforting thought. We opened the door and an overwhelming blast of heat embraced my face, and a strong scent of coffee filled my nostrils. I remember thinking “this isn’t so bad” but then I remembered I came here for a reason, and sitting on my snow pant clad ass in front of the warm fire wasn’t one of them. My mission that day was to embrace the cold side of Mother Nature, instead of seeking shelter at the first signs of chilly weather. Once inside, we purchased the overly expensive all day passes, and I, being the “ski virgin,” as they called me, had to rent skis.
Moments later I appeared in the doorway, looking frazzled while trying to sustain a steady balance while holding two antique looking skis, and child sized poles. My feet were already sweating in the ski boots and I had developed a runny nose at some point during the trek from the car to the lodge and the ski fitting. We weren’t there for more than a half hour when I began to wonder why I even bothered to come in the first place. I am not an outdoorsy person. I don’t camp, I don’t hike and up until today, I didn’t ski. I belong in a mall somewhere, shopping during a blizzard, or perhaps, at Starbucks, warming up over a steamy cup of coffee, I thought, as I fumbled with the doorknob. And with one clumsy turn, I stepped outside, took a deep breath…and almost passed out from the frigidity. I felt my insides turn to ice. I have arrived, I thought, as I threw down the aged skis with a shrug. “Can we leave yet?”
The wind at that moment was ungodly. I felt Mother Nature’s finger pointing at me, mocking me in all my naive glory. Here I was, a tiny girl in an oversized parka, with two of my best guy friends, both of who have been skiing practically their whole lives. I skied once in my entire life. It was cross-country and even then I somehow managed to sprain my ankle. The future at that moment seemed incredibly bleak.
Oh, I spoke to soon. Bleak was an understatement. Bleak was the old 1980 Pontiac Bonneville amongst a lot full of Dodge Vipers. It took no less than 20 minutes to latch my discolored boots into the rusting latch of Susan B. Anthony’s skis. By that time, we had been there almost an hour and none of us were happy.
We glided toward the chair lift. I felt the snot gluing itself to my face and thought to myself, “Great. There goes any chance of meeting a guy here.” I was almost positive this day was going to turn out to be a bust.
After much persuasion and a promise for hot chocolate later, I got on the chair lift. I felt most of my uneasiness drop into my dangling feet as I marveled at the sight around me. I felt like I was in a snow globe. The evergreen trees were below me, snow capped and dancing in the slight breezes. Tiny snowflakes drifted past my cheeks and stuck in my hair, until they reluctantly melted into wetness. The cold didn’t seem to bother me at that particular moment and I didn’t find anything unnatural about being outdoors in this type of weather, as I was so obstinate in my thinking that it would.
As we neared the top, my thinking wasn’t as philosophical. “Shit!” I yelped, “How are we supposed to get off of this thing?” My nerves again became bundled in my stomach, and my hands began to sweat. I remember a distinct feeling of panic prickling in my face and at my temples. My breath had escaped me.
After a quick lesson on exactly what to do from my friend, and assurance that it “wasn’t the hardest thing to do,” I mentally prepared myself for nuclear war. The questions that were racing through my mind were enough to make Picabo Street rethink her entire career.
“Just stick your poles in the ground and push off,” He told me. So what did I do wrong that made me fall out of the chair and slide down the tiny hill into a small bush? I ask myself that very question everyday.
It took another 5 minutes to regain my formerly upright position before we could even begin skiing to the hill. When we got there, my friends began giving me a crash course of skiing 101, using The Southpark Method. The Southpark Method is from the TV show Southpark, in which Stan tries downhill skiing for the first time. He receives lessons on foot positioning, which were aptly named, Pizza and French Fries. Pizza was the technique used to slow down, where your foot positioning came to a point, but didn’t cross. “You must never cross your skis,” my friend told me, in a voice much like that of Darth Vader’s. French Fries, on the other hand, or, foot rather, is the technique in which your skis are parallel to one another, mostly used for speed and aerodynamics. The combination of the two, my friends explained, is probably the direction I should go in, seeing as how I’m a ski virgin and all. With a few more words of wisdom, we headed toward the edge of where my sanity ended and my journey began. And it was only the bunny slope!
Without even pushing off, I started to set out on two skis that had a mind of their own. I tried to incorporate pizza/French fries as much as I could but found it nearly impossible to keep my mind on technique as well as direction. As I began to gain some speed, I started to scream. My friends were still at the top of the hill, watching as I literally flew down towards the abyss. Before I knew it, I was going faster than I ever thought possible. The wind burned my cheeks, tangled my hair and thrust the hat right off my head. I could barely keep my eyes open as trees and fellow skiers rushed by, blurring themselves into nothingness. I felt them beginning to tear up as my screams of sheer panic turned into those of utter joy. As I started to embrace the pure elation that took over my body, I was bombarded with the harsh reality that lay before me, the parking lot. And it was growing closer and closer with each passing second.
I tried to move my legs, to put pressure on one, then the other, to try to slalom or even to stop. But nothing worked. And I was running out of time fast. Into my vision came a tall snow bank, a thick white barrier between me, the out of control skier, and the parking lot, the icy enemy.
With one swift motion I was one with the snow bank. I watched as my two skies slid underneath the mounds of heavy, wet snow and laughed as I was thrown into it, and then back by the force that was against me. As I lay there, sprawled about in a sheet of white, my poles clutched tightly in my hands, my knees bent upward in a nearly impossible angle, I cried. Not because I was in pain, the pillowy parka prevented that, and not because of the tremendous fear that I experienced while traveling down that hill, but because I had never felt such joy as I did at that moment. My friends came not too long after and helped to dig me out. My laughter at that point was unending. I could feel my insides aching from laughing so hard. When I finally was back on my feet again, my friend asked me if I wanted to take a break and get some hot chocolate. And I replied through streaming tears, “Not yet.”
I think I was beginning to warm up to the cold side of Mother Nature.
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