I learned how to ski as an adult, and learned to teach at the same time. Hired by the supervisor at the kid's ski school to help inside with parents and kiddos, fit skis and boots, and to clean the building after hours, it was with the understanding that if I tried skiing and liked it I'd be added to the roster of instructors. Not the typical route to become a skier or to teach it, but it just so happened that my own first day of skiing opened something wide in my mind and body and in a moment I became hooked.
I fell, oh how many times did I fall that day. Standing or walking in my secondhand ski boots, which are slippery and cumbersome footwear. In initial attempts to put on my skis I'd try to step into the binding, the ski would shy away and I'd splat onto the snow. I'd fall with the introduction of every new skill: sliding the skis into a triangle shape to stop, side step or herringbone walk, in turns - especially to the right - and traverses, pretty much a fall on average every 5-10 minutes. During my 4 hour intro lesson, I flopped to the ground as if I were boneless chicken, the sun blazed over head so I steamed through my clothes, the boots pinched my ankles, my rump and other parts a patchwork black and blue, and my emotions ran the gamut from thrilled to terrified.
A more sensible person might have conceded that she lacked some of the essential qualities of a skier - balance, coordination and grace - but I have rarely been identified as a sensible person.
I went back for more the next day, tired, bruised and hung over from celebrating the thrilling victory of having survived my first day of skiing. The entire class progressed beyond the Strawberry Hill beginner slope, though I know I was advanced with some reservations. We skied over to the #1 chair lift, which brought us to the main base area and a sign I'll paraphrase which has welcomed folk to Taos Ski Valley for decades: although the expert terrain, which is all you can see from here, is the better part of the mountain, TSV also has some fun and friendly beginner and intermediate terrain. So don't be scared. Maybe just a little.
I plonked my sore derriere into the chair lift and my heart clamored to jump out of my body via my throat. Ahead of me the mountain loomed larger and steeper as we ascended. There were people actually skiing below us, making more turns than I considered possible. I expected one or all of them to suddenly free fall into oblivion, and assured myself I'd never ski said terrain.
Short story told long: I survived my first green run aka "easiest way down" and from then on skiing often reigned over the known universe. I spent the rest of the winter guiding 3 year olds towards the ski life, and though it might have looked more like babysitting than coaching, I did bring my growing passion and knowledge of skiing to those kiddos, along with snow sculpture, hot chocolate and find-the-missing-mitten games.
Every free moment I had I slid down the mountain with ever increasing speed and daring, even if the skills were slower to arrive. Successes were achieved: first intermediate, advanced, then expert terrain runs, skiing in trees, through bumps, my first hike, race and stitches. Yes, I failed on occasion, but loved the exquisite sensation to be found in gliding over snow amongst the beauty of the southern Rockies. Minor crashes and injuries spiced the experience.
I spoke about failure in my previous post, and I realize that success and failure are inextricable and interdependent. I can achieve my goals only if I am willing to fail, and the avoidance of failure is in direct correlation to my ability to succeed. If I relinquish my attachment to the outcome of my endeavours, just as I did when I learned to ski, eventually I can succeed in almost anything I try, and love the times when I fail.
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| Snowbird, Utah Photo by Joe Augusten |
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