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Arlene and her family were all skiers—they even skied in Austria. After dating for three months, Arlene wanted to bring me on a ski trip with her family. Being a foolish young man in love, I happily agreed to become the skier she wanted me to be.
My friend Phil was already a skier, so I’d borrow some of his equipment, to save money in case this whole ski adventure (and Arlene) did not work out. I knew nothing of skiing, so when he handed me his snow bibs, I squeezed into them.
“How’s this look?” I asked, and had no idea why Phil laughed so hard when he saw me; to me, the gear looked fine, maybe a little snug around my waist.
“You realize,” he said between gasps of laughter, “they’re supposed to come up over your chest.”
So much for saving money.
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After a short time (and a great deal of money) I appeared in the role of an experienced skier—short of the fact that I had yet to touch a mountain. My first trip with Arlene and her family was to Breckenridge, Colorado. During the van ride from the airport to the ski lodge, I was not comforted by the news story on the radio—a story I would hear the entire time I was in Colorado: an avalanche and they currently looked for six skiers who all presumed dead.
Tell me again why I was doing this? Oh, that’s right, love (sex).
The next day, I found myself at the bottom of the mountain waiting on the chairlift. After an hour lesson on the bunny slope (I felt prepared) we headed to the top of the mountain. To get on the chairlift looked easy—disembarking appeared to be a whole other issue.
“When you jump off the lift, just snowplow,” Arlene told me.
By the end of that week, I learned to hate the word “snowplow.” Apparently, in the world of skiing, “snowplow” is appropriate in every situation.
“Oh my God, I can’t stop!”
“Snowplow.”
“I think I’m going to run into those trees!”
“Snowplow.”
“You look really fat in that dress.”
“Fuck you.”
Okay, maybe not every situation.
As the lift ascended the mountain, I fixated on how to get off this damn chair. What little confidence I had grew smaller as the lodge disappeared behind us. I continued skyward, terrified, not of skiing, but of how to navigate that little slope of snow that awaited me at the end of this ride. A small, frightened voice in my head repeated, “Don’t fall off the chair—don’t fall off the chair—for the love of god, don’t fall off the chair.”
Surprisingly, I jumped off the chair, did not fall, and slowly “snowplowed” to a safe, gentle stop. That was easy.
Confidence restored.
Although, it was a confidence I did not deserve. Awkwardly, I slid over to the top of the trail. My plan was to serpentine the mountain until I reached the bottom.
The mountain, however, had other plans.
As I started to my left, my skies turned and pointed down the mountain, like nails drawn to a magnet. In less time than it took me to scream, “Oh shit!” I was off.
Faintly, in the distance, I heard Arlene yell, “SNOWPLOW! “
At this point, I needed a real plow to be parked in front of me because I had no idea how to stop. My speed increased, I divided the skiers in front of me. Some shouted encouragement as I flew past them; others cursed me as I tried not to die.
As I neared the bottom of the trail, I had no choice. Every muscle tensed, I just fell over. I skidded and rolled and eventually came to a stop. I jumped up, hands raised in victory toward the sun—but people had already stopped watching.
After a few more runs, I did start to feel comfortable in my new skin. On the second day, I went up with Arlene and her family to the restaurant at the top of the mountain. A green (novice) and a blue (intermediate) trail would guide me back down after we had something to eat.
After lunch, Arlene and her sisters assured me that if I followed them, they would point me in the direction of the green trail. I skied behind them, and just as I picked up a little speed, they all turned at once and screamed “GO BACK! “
The combination of snow, skies, and gravity does not allow anyone to “GO BACK” no matter how loud you shout.
A moment later, I saw the reason for their concern—the only way down from this point was a Double Black Diamond Moguls trail, which is the Darth Vader of ski trails.
I crept to the edge and looked down. If I could get past the moguls, I might be able to survive the trip to the bottom. With great trepidation, I navigated through the minefield I found myself in, and surprisingly came out clean on the other side—but still had the mountain to conquer.
Emboldened by my initial accomplishment, I started to snowplow toward the tree line on my right. Then, much like the day before, my skies turned on their own, and I found myself once again facing my demise. This time, with much greater speed, and not so much heading down the mountain, but pointed at the ominous tree line.
Within seconds, I wasn’t given the choice to fall, I just did—but my momentum did not allow me to stop. The trees were coming up fast. My goggles flew off my head, and my poles deserted me. I kicked at my skies, trying to disengage them from my boots but, unlike the poles, they felt compelled to stay with me until the end. I threw off my gloves and tried to grip the mountain itself—a cartoon character move that did nothing but leave trails of blood and fingernail scratches in the snow.
Eventually, I came to a stop. Flat on my back, I lifted my head and watched as Arlene casually skied down to me. She picked up the scattered rain of my equipment, and pride, which peppered the mountain face.
My belongings returned, I told Arlene I had had enough. I did the skier’s walk of shame down the mountain, back to the lodge. With skies on my shoulder and blood dripping from my fingers, I was pretty sure that the only snow covered mountains I ever wanted to see again were on the label of a cold bottle of Coors.
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This post was originally published on HuffingtonPost.com and is republished with the author’s permission.
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