It's Not Hitting the Slopes I Fear... It's That They Might Hit Back

Skiing is one of those hobbies that my wife and I always intend to embrace wholeheartedly, but that life has always had a way of intervening to prevent us. Mostly, it's been a matter of our budget not feeling comfortable supporting that particular extracurricular activity, but I guess we have to take the blame for a noted lack of motivation as well. If we really wanted to go on a regular basis, we'd probably find a way to make it happen. Well it turns out that this year, to paraphrase Dr. Ian Malcolm, life, uh, found a way.

Some friends of ours who have taken up skiing/snowboarding as a hobby invited us over for a ski trip weekend this past February. It was exactly the kind of swift kick in the posterior we needed to get us back out on the slopes. It was long overdue for an activity that both my wife and I seemed to enjoy; for me, it had been about a decade since I'd been out on a hill, and for my wife double that. My daughter had been part of ski club at school the winter previous. It was only my son who had yet to be initiated, and this was the perfect opportunity.

Our friends who had invited us out for the weekend had moved out close to Blue Mountain, which for those in the know is one of the hot spots in Ontario to become one with the hills (either spiritually or literally depending on one's skill level). This is a family that is dedicated to the craft, with a house within striking distance of more runs you could get through in a day; membership at a private ski club; weekly excursions; thermal, astronaut-grade underwear; the whole nine yards. It also so happened that our weekend trip would coincide with their children's birthdays (who happened to be twins), so with the offer to help us find our snow legs and the guilt of potentially disappointing young children on their birthday if we declined, we were properly motivated to experience winter in all her glory and terror.

I ended up going with the snowboard while the rest of my clan opted for skis. It's not that I'm a naturally born contrarian (although, I am), but that the last time I'd been on a hill it had been on a snowboard, and I was counting on the fact that I wasn't so old that even my muscles were starting to lose their memory. I do have to admit, in all fairness and humility, that it wasn't exactly like riding a bike. We did the smart thing, and spent the morning on the training hill (I remember it being referred to as the bunny hill back in the day, but I'm not yet savvy enough in the gnarly arts to recall whether that was for the specific hill I'd been at or whether it was a more general term). Getting down the hill was a never a problem; it was getting down in one piece that worried me.

I don't know it it's a common theme among beginning snowboarders, but I found that my toe edge gave me little to no problem, and it was my heel edge I couldn't quite master at first. It was brought to my attention from one of our familial companions that my issue was that I was not getting down low enough, and it was suggested that I imagine that I was pooping, i.e., mimicking the motion of squatting down on a toilet. This seemed to do the trick not only for my snowboarding, but also for the children who were still young enough to find humour at the mere mention of feces in any context.

My wife, twenty years out of the game, caught back up a lot quicker than I did, and my daughter still had her recent lessons fresh in her mind, so she was fine. My son seemed to have the greatest difficulty out of all of us; not out of a lack of dexterity, because he's probably comparatively in the best physical shape out of all of us, but mostly out of fear. He picked up on the actual physical part of things fairly quickly; it was usually when he looked up and happened to catch sight of the bottom of the hill that he'd lose his nerve a little and seemingly forget everything he learned.

It was all the more to his credit, then, when in the afternoon we actually went up on some adult-sized hills, and he came up with us willingly, despite his obvious apprehension. I hope that out of all the lessons my children might take from me, the willingness to try new things despite any fear or apprehension will be one of the better ones.

For my son's part, despite his misgivings, he did make it down several runs with us, and for this I have to give credit to my paternal counterpart from the family who had invited us. He was very patiently teaching my son the ropes and helping him down the hill while I was trying desperately to keep myself out of the hospital. Despite some hiccups, my son acquitted himself pretty well, especially for his first time ever attempting the sport. I managed to get a short video of some of his skills, which hopefully he'll be able to look back and be proud of what he was able to accomplish on his first time out despite how frustrated he obviously was on the day of.

For my part, I did manage to make it through the day with no broken bones, and only a slightly bruised pride. I must admit that my fear of serious injury was definitely a lot more acute snowboarding as I approach forty than it was when I was still looking ahead to thirty. I did manage to throw myself into the endeavor (both spiritually and literally), as much as an example for my children now as to prove something to myself. I held nothing back, which was evidenced by my snowpants, which at one point ended up somehow more shredded than the slopes on which we had been traversing. For my own part, I managed to track down some duct tape, fix myself up, and head back out on the mountain. Apparently, my disheveled appearance ruffled the feathers of a few of the club members (I was told my uniquely repaired gear was getting a lot of sideways looks), but I don't know any other way to be. If life requires that I get back up, dust myself off, and duct tape myself back together to get to the finish line, then that's what I'm going to do.

At the end of the weekend, when we reluctantly packed up and returned to our ski-free normal lives, we left renewed. I can honestly say that my son wasn't the only one who stood at the bottom of those hills looking up, and feeling that sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. Not only had be proved to ourselves that we could tackle this thing, but that we could do it together, and with no broken bones.