The Worst Skier in Colorado

My wife Dot had been prodding me since before we got married to take her skiing. Now, let me say that this was not a bad thing; I've lived in Colorado now for nearly twenty years, but I had never gone skiing. I was one of those people, the guy who receives stares of incredulity whenever it became known that he didn't ski. I was a little bit ashamed. So, when Dot suggested a ski trip a couple of weeks ago, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to smite that blight of embarrassment from my permanent record. I called the ski resort and reserved some equipment for us, and I also reserved a spot for myself in their ski school. I figured two hours of lessons would be enough to get me started. Dot, needing no lessons, would be able to go enjoy the slopes while I spent the morning learning how to stay on my skis and off my butt.

Yesterday was the day of our ski trip. Before yesterday, I was simply a guy who didn't ski. Today, I am the Worst Skier in Colorado. Really.

Things started out well enough. We made the two-hour drive to the resort in light traffic and wonderful weather. When we got there, we picked up our equipment and I was ready in plenty of time for ski school. Except I think they called it Snow School--perhaps because they also teach snowboarding, but more likely because beginners become intimately acquainted with the snow during their lessons, if you know what I mean. I grew up in Minnesota, and Snow School recalled memories of winter from long ago. Never mind that I'd sworn never to move back to Minnesota.

Jeff, my Snow School instructor, was faced with the task of teaching eight of us how to make our skis take us where we wanted to go. For the first hour or so, I was trudging up and down the bunny hill, learning how to make a wedge with my skis, how to put my weight on the downhill ski, and how to use my ankles to turn the skis. After that, we learned how to get on and off the ski lift, and we rode all the way up to the top of the bunny hill. An hour and a few runs later, I was able to mostly stay on my skis, make left and right turns, and generally control myself on the wide, gentle slope of the bunny hill. I felt like I was ready to try a green slope.

Yeah. Right.

After I met Dot for lunch, she decided to take me all the way up to the top of the mountain, and we'd ski a series of green runs back down to the bottom. After all, the view from the top was simply breathtaking, she told me. The trip to the top involved riding a lift, and then skiing a short distance downhill to a second lift that would take us up a steep incline to the top.

That short ski from the first lift to the second should have been enough to dissuade me from getting on the second lift.

Between being simply a rank beginner with all the challenges associated with that status, and then just being scared out of my wits by seeing more experienced skiers seemingly coming out of nowhere and screaming past me at 300 miles per hour, I was nearly too petrified to move. Once I did, I managed to wipe out maybe three or four hundred times before I got to the second lift. The process looked like this: (1) Look carefully to make sure I'm not going to ski out into the path of an oncoming missile--er, skier. (2) Carefully move my skis until I start gliding down the slope. (3) Wipe out when I reach the point where I need to turn. (4) Swear. (5) Get back on my feet, hopefully without losing a ski down the hill. (6) Swear. (7) Get my skis back on. (8) Repeat.

Apparently, having that BBQ beef brisket sandwich for lunch caused me to completely forget everything I'd learned during the morning's ski lesson (imagine what would have happened had I ordered a beer, too!). I still hadn't forgotten about the successes I'd experienced on the bunny hill, though, and I figured it was simply a matter of time before I felt better and more confident on the slopes.

Yup, it was simply a matter of time. Like maybe a century or two.

Reality hadn't yet sunk in before I let that second lift carry me up the mountain to the top. And I saw that the view was indeed spectacular when we got there. And then I looked at the slopes.

Yikes.

The slope of the bunny hill had been gentle and as wide as a football field. The slope that I saw before me as I stood at the top of the mountain was much steeper and about as wide as my driveway. On either side of this ribbon of ski slope was a steep dropoff that I knew wasn't meant for skiing. And this was a green run--one of the easiest.

I was doomed, and I knew it. I couldn't control my speed and direction well enough to keep from flying off the side of the slope and into oblivion. I found myself wishing for a parachute. And yet even five-year-olds were flying by me as they raced down the hill, mocking me with their skill and fearlessness. I wanted to trip the little buggers.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

So there I was at the top of the mountain, trying my best to ski down the easiest slopes, flawlessly executing my eight-step process for skiing (see above), while Dot followed me on her own skis with absolutely no trouble at all. It was becoming painfully clear to me that, with my current skill level, I had little hope of arriving at the bottom of the hill with my skis on my feet and not over my shoulder. So I skied along the few parts that I could, but mostly I walked down to the bottom of the mountain. Dot skied or walked behind me, and I'm sure her thoughts alternated between wondering (a) if she'd ever be able to get me to go skiing with her again, and (b) whether she wanted me to ever go skiing with her again.

It was a long walk down. Luckily, I didn't see anybody I knew on the way down the mountain. But I still had a powerful urge to trip the other skiers as they flew by. And all the way down, I was secretly plotting to find my Jeff, my Snow School instructor, and beat him with my skis.

Thankfully, Dot and I were able to laugh about the whole episode once we reached the lodge and recovered from the ordeal. I was soaked--partly from the snow, but mostly from profuse sweating caused by trying to get back on my skis after the countless times I'd wiped out. It was a good thing I'd listened to Dot and brought a clean, dry shirt that I could trade for the wet, clammy one I was wearing.

I'm not sure that Dot will be happy about this, but I will go skiing again. But next time I'll stick to the bunny hill a little longer, and then I'll find the greens that are closest to the bottom of the mountain. Less distance to fall (or walk), after all.

And you can bet that I'll be watching to see if I can find someone else to bear the title of Worst Skier in Colorado. Until then, that honor belongs to me.