Just as I Was About to Call Ski Patrol, a 16-Year-Old Came to My Rescue
“Alright then girls, time for your first green,” says Ella, her sophisticated voice engulfed in a dense Manchester accent. Ella and I became fast friends in Denver. She was in the U.S. on a work visa and happened to be a new, but exceptional skier since moving to Colorado. I shudder, unsure if it’s the fear of skiing or the frigid January air sneaking its way beneath my layers and rushing down my spine.
I was up in Steamboat with a group of friends for a ski weekend. As a novice skier and new resident of Colorado, there was no way I was going to miss this, even if it terrified me. Before the trip, I envisioned the perfect ski weekend – zooming down the slopes before an après at the lodge, a dip in the hot tub to soothe the sore muscles and a glass of red wine by the fire.
However, upon arrival in Steamboat, we learned it was the largest snowfall the resort had seen in over 20 years and there was “some serious powder,” as told by the local part-time ski instructor, part-time bartender at the brewery. I didn’t know if this would make for a better or more frightening first ski weekend.
“I don’t know if I’m ready just yet, Ella.” An air of uncertainty hovering over me as I glance over at Mary who’s also a beginner. Snowflakes gently land on the surface of her helmet and melt away. I can’t see her face beneath her goggles and ski mask, but something tells me she’s as hesitant to retire from the bunny slopes as I am. Mary was from San Diego and the image of a “California girl.” She was more accustomed to sand and surf than snow and ski.
I’d only skied once before and I left the experience severely traumatized. During the three-hour lesson, the instructor literally lost her voice shouting “PIZZA! PIZZA! PIZZA!” at me across the hill. At one point, she gave up altogether, and let me hurtle myself down the mountain until I face-planted, snow packed into my eyelashes, my poles tossed in opposite directions. I considered just lying there, melting into the mountain like a snowman.
“Yes you areeee, Michelle,” says Ella, drawing out her words in a suave way that makes it hard to disagree. “You girls have to conquer your fear someday, otherwise just throw in the towel and go get a Bloody Mary at the lodge.”
“That actually sounds great,” I joke. Ella chuckles, but I can tell she’s getting impatient and I feel guilty holding her back from her day on the slopes.
“Why don’t you two take the gondola up to the top of the mountain and just check the run out?” she asks. “If it’s too scary you can take it back down.”
“Come on, Michelle. Let’s send it,” Mary says, lifting her goggles and ski mask off her face so I can see her calm demeanor. She’s braver than me, but then again, she was “French frying” during her first lesson. I take a deep inhale to compose my nerves and release the fear.
“I’m in.” I regret the words before they have a chance to exit my mouth. I immediately feel panicked and my attention redirects towards my left knee which suddenly feels wobbly and fragile.
As an avid traveler, I’ve learned to expect a healthy dose of misfortune with every adventure: a missed train, a wrong turn, a stomach bug, even the unbearable headache of a lost passport – it happens to us all. However, these risks have always been worth it for the rewards travel offers – the unbelievable memories, the stories I talk about years later and the cultural immersion that’s impossible to get without a little calculated risk. And I still believe that – even after experiencing a disastrous injury on my very first day living in Colorado. I had driven into Estes Park late the night before. My plan was to spend a few days hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park before moving into my apartment in Denver. That morning, everything was normal. I embarked on a serene but snowy hike through the park. One mile from the trailhead, I slipped on an icy patch, shattered my knee, and unlocked a new fear I had never had before. Since then, the outdoors, despite being a place of serenity for me, had also become a place of danger and injury.
“Ready?” Mary squeezes my shoulder through my jacket, and shakes me out of my head.
“You got this, girls,” says Ella, beaming like a proud mother. “We’ll meet up after for a drink and to celebrate your run.” Parting ways, Ella heads in one direction, Mary and I in the other. We wade our way toward the gondola through the thick fluffy powder. Snow pelts us in the face, the sun temporarily hiding behind a thick gray cloud. The weight of my generic rental skis, decorated in a red and white striped design, dig into my aching left shoulder. I attempt to reposition them, but nothing provides relief.
I slink back into my thoughts. Why do I put myself through this stress? Is skiing even fun? What is the hype about? Should I just turn around and go get a hot chocolate? Just as I begin to really contemplate these questions, we reach the gondola line. Hordes of skiers pile in behind us and it’s too late to bail. Once we’re at the front of the line, we find temporary relief, unloading the tremendous weight of our gear and piling onto the gondola seated shoulder-to-shoulder. As the gondola makes its way to the top of the mountain, I look down admiring skiers who are brave enough to go off course and adventure through the trees. The snow below us looks like a fluffy cloud and I wonder what it would feel like to fall into it and make a snow angel. With us on the gondola are four 8-year-old unaccompanied girls.
“How long have you been skiing?” I ask one of them.
“Hmm, since I was like two or something,” she replies, nonchalantly. Mary and I look at each other and snicker. Are we really intimidated by an 8-year-old?
“How about you?” another girl in a hot pink ski jacket asks.
“This is my first real day,” I say. “Any tips?”
“Don’t be afraid and go fast!” she replies. Her fearlessness and wisdom inspires me and I sit up a little taller.
Once we get to the top of the mountain, we exit the gondola and take a minute to regroup. I feel like a tiny speck as I take in my jaw-dropping surroundings. Colossal mountain tops engulf us, making the lodge to our left look like a toy house. Evergreen trees dusted in a layer of snow sway back and forth. The sun decides to reappear for a brief moment, but this doesn’t stop the snow from dumping down on us in a diagonal fashion that makes it hard to look around without our goggles on. Skiers whisk past us in every direction – some making their way down the mountain, others finding shelter and a warm beverage in the lodge. I wonder how many of them are previously injured and getting back out there. If they can, then what’s stopping me? Gusts of bitter and harsh wind whip across my cracked cheeks and already dry lips.
After a few minutes, the wind settles and we locate a massive wooden sign that directs us to a variety of ski runs. My eyes navigate to Why Not, the 3.5-mile winding green run we plan to do. We heel-toe our way to the start. We take a peek down the run, which starts between a narrow row of aspens and evergreens before winding around a bend. It looks fairly narrow which puts a pit in my stomach, but it’s also not terribly steep. Skiers sweep past us, disappearing around the bend and I wonder what awaits me if I decide to proceed.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Mary.
“I think we should just go for it,” she replies. “What’s the worst that can happen?” And with that it’s decided. I’m wearing wool socks, but my toes are still somehow frozen inside my boots. I shake off the packed snow at the base of my boots and lock them into my skis, secure my poles around my wrists, and pull my hat farther down over my ears.
“After you.” I point towards the start of the trail with my ski pole. Mary pushes her poles through the powder to propel herself forward, sliding down the first hill. I follow close behind, practicing my pizza so that I don’t go too fast. When the bend comes around the side, I angle my skis to turn, but my head doesn’t follow and I find myself looking directly down the side of the mountain, petrified. I panic and throw myself over on the side of the trail. To my surprise, Mary does the same thing. I audibly groan and throw my head back into the snow before hoisting myself back up on my skis. I pull Mary up next to me and the same thing happens. We ski down the hill, but as soon as the bend appears, we panic and topple over into the snow. A ski patrol passes and asks if we’re okay. We hesitantly nod, considering flying our “forfeit flag.”
“Just regrouping,” we shout over the snow, with a light chuckle of embarrassment.
“Sounds good,” he replies. “Call ski patrol if you need a ride down.” We get back up on our feet and try again to no avail. Again and again, with every bend we tip ourselves over. That’s when it dawns on me – I can do this. I can make it down the mountain, but I’m letting fear get in the way. Mary and I sit on the side of the mountain, only 0.4 miles in, exhausted and tense, when a snowboarder stops to check on us.
“Are you guys, okay?” he asks, wispy brown hair escaping his helmet.
“We are, just feeling a little anxious and we keep looking down the mountain on every turn which is psyching us out,” I reply.
“Well, there’s your problem. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, don’t look down?” I laugh at how obvious that is, why do I keep looking down the mountain instead of where I am going?
“How about I ski you two down?” he asks. “It’s the best way to learn, just follow my turns. I take a minute to consider his offer.
“No, I think I’m all done,” says Mary. “You two go on, I’m going to call the snowmobile down.”
“No way,” I shout. “You’re better than me. We can totally do this.” I look at her in disbelief. How could she be giving up so quick? I’m disappointed that she’d leave me and I question if I should just hop on the back of the snowmobile too, so we stick together.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” says the snowboarder.
“I’m Michelle,” I reply, my head still swirling on the fact Mary is taking the snowmobile down.
“Do you still want to follow me down?” I stand paralyzed in indecision. Do I attempt to make it down by following this stranger’s lead or do I take the safe choice and hop on the snowmobile with Mary? I look at Mary. I look at Jack. I know I can make it down, I just need to “not be afraid,” as the little girl on the gondola said to me.
“Let’s go for it,” I say to Jack, looking back at Mary who gives me a thumbs up.
“Great, ready?” he asks. I throw up a thumbs up to indicate that I am and, in a flash, he’s off. I trail Jack by a few feet to give him space. I follow his snowboard tracks, weaving left to right through the thick powder. I take a glance behind me and catch Mary shrinking in the background as I zoom off. When the next turn appears, I hesitate but keep my sights on Jack instead of the side of the mountain and successfully stay on my feet. A little feeling of electricity passes through me as I celebrate. We traverse the mountain without any falls. Jack periodically looks back at me to make sure I’m following.
Another mile passes and for the first time, I find the joy in skiing. The bitter air turns crisp. The thick gray cloud blocking the sun moves. The powder is fluffy and fun to ride through. The speed is exhilarating and the views no longer scare me like they did before. It reminds me of the time before my injury, when I was clueless to the danger of the outdoors. I continue to follow Jack’s tracks, weaving through the cloud of snow beneath my skis. The trees rush past me on either side as I pick up speed down the mountain. I fall into an almost meditative state that reminds me of hiking. Lean left. Lean right. Turn left. Turn right. My mind wanders to the trees above me and the snow beneath my skis. The sunshine and the light flakes of snow melting as they hit my jacket. I am filled with a great sense of gratitude for my body and I realize that I haven’t thought about my left knee since I started the run. This is the first time since my injury that I am reclaiming the mountain and the fears that come with it.
Jack and I make our way to the last 0.5 miles of the run and in the distance, I see a steep decline that merges with other more advanced blue runs. My heart suddenly drops, but I know I have no choice at this point but to finish what I started. “You got this,” I whisper to myself, leaning forward to fully embrace the speed. I whip left to right, weaving around other skiers. That’s when I lose control and fall hard on my back. My head whips back and hits the hard, icy snow. My legs are propelled in the air. Jack rushes back to check on me, but before he has a chance I am up on my feet, ready to finish the run. I realize that falling is just a part of the process and it’s not as scary as it looks. I reach down for my knee, grateful for how strong it is.
We ski to the bottom of the resort and I am beaming from the inside out. I look behind me at where I came from, the massive mountain I conquered now a stunning, panoramic view. A dorky smile sits permanently across my lips. Jack takes off his helmet and goggles and for the first time I notice he is a teenager, probably fifteen or sixteen. I am shocked – in my mind he was older, experienced and wise. I am impressed by his kindness and his patience.
“You killed it out there,” Jack throws up a high-five in my direction.
“Thanks to you.” I return the high five. “You should really consider becoming a ski instructor.”
“Ha, maybe one day.” Jack and I part ways and I pull out my phone for the first time to see where my friends are. My notifications are filled with texts and calls from the day. I navigate to one from Ella. At T-Bar right by the end of Why Not. I look to my right and see the bar. My friends, including Ella are all gathered around a table, drinks and food in hand, music blaring over the speakers. I feel electric, and so proud as I approach them.
“Michelle! Speed Queen!” shouts Ella. I chuckle, leaning into a hug and join the rest of our group. “We heard about Mary. Poor thing. She just called; they’re giving her a ride down now.”
“Ugh, I know. I felt terrible leaving her, but I knew I could ski my way down,” I say.
“I knew you could too.” Ella’s beaming and so am I. “You have to overcome that mental block and you did. She will too.”
Ella hands me a Coors Light and we cheers to an excellent ski day. The conversation shifts to dinner plans for the evening and my mind wanders to the day I’ve had. I envision what it would feel like if I had clicked off my skis and waited for snow patrol to take me down the mountain because of fear. I’m filled with a sense of pride that I took the first step in defeating this anxiety that I’d been cultivating for the past year. Today, I’ve reclaimed it as a place of peace, joy and exhilaration.
I look up at the glaring, hot Colorado sun, letting its warmth bury me and flush my cheeks. Jack’s words, don’t look down echo in my head as I tilt my chin up. Ingrained in my memory is the mountain and Jack – the kid who skied me down 3.5 miles and showed me the joy that conquering my fears and reclaiming the mountain can bring me.
