On day one of learning how to ski, I traveled down an expert run.
But I didn’t ski it. I bombed down the run while clinging to my best friend’s brother’s back like a spider-monkey, screaming down the mountainside.
Early that morning, Archer and his girlfriend Milly invited me out to ‘show me the basics’. I didn’t think a double black diamond was in the cards. Neither did they.
“Whoops,” he remarked with a laugh, peering down the face of the jagged, icy bluff. “We took a wrong turn!”
Archer was born and raised in a ski-town by lifelong skiers, and thus possessed borderline superhuman abilities. He’d ‘send it’ off cliffs, bomb down expert runs, and casually do backflips off ski park jumps. He skied in Japan, used a GoPro. After graduating college with a business degree, Archer moved back to his hometown and became a ski-shop manager.
He’s who I’d normally call a ski bum under any other circumstance, but he doesn’t quite fit the description. Chiefly, he’s not arrogant. Secondly, I can’t blame him if he grew up on skis, especially staying humble about the leg-up. Archer shredded for the love of the gnar, not to prove anything. He wanted to share the thrill with everyone.
Moving to Colorado I’d never skied before, nor entertained the concept - much too rich for my blood. I wasn’t big into outdoor sports, either. Yet my barista work came with a reimbursed ski pass, and I could borrow gear through my friend’s family. All I really needed was a coach.
The morning Milly and Archer invited me, I agreed to come along on a whim; for the spontaneity of the choice, for the love of something new. When in Colorado, do as the Coloradans do. Why not?
Why not indeed. I recalled this bastardized phrasing of mine at the freezing peak of an expert-level run, where the only way out was through. After announcing our ‘wrong turn’, Archer gestured at me to hand him something.
“Here, Milly can carry your skis, and I’ll carry you down.”
I didn’t understand.
“Carry me? On skis?”
“Yeah, you’ll be on my back.”
I laughed. I imagined us leaping over the bluff, Archer’s skis promptly disintegrating on impact due to the weight we’d be placing them under.
“No way. We’d die.”
Archer didn’t care. “Take off your skis and hop on, we’ll be fine! Trust me.”
Before kindly escorting my skis down the mountain, Milly emphasized his abilities, ones I wasn’t accustomed to doubting before.
“I can do this. Don’t worry,” Archer assured me. With no other way out, I decided to believe him.
Right as I climbed on, he pushed right off. We rapidly picked up speed, flying past the iceberg-tips of boulders, over wiry tangles of bushes, and under towering pine trees. He skied with an ease that made me feel weightless. My screams melted into ecstatic laughter as I grew increasingly certain we actually weren’t careening to our deaths, and could actually enjoy the ride.
I was stunned by the view. I stared at the surrounding giant firs as they passed; their lofty wings weighted by thick clots of ice. Sudden breezes scattered silver glitter from their branches.
We sailed across a winter wonderland, and I felt the kind of exhilaration that taking flight might inspire in birds. The pleasure of a confident fall.
I was sold. We’d safely reached the bottom of the run, but all I wanted was to go back up.
“I told you I could do it,” he made sure to remind me. I pretended to kiss the snowy ground.
Milly, Archer and I would go skiing almost every weekend to follow, even into mud season. They’d revealed the thrill of skiing that, on my own, I would’ve quickly given up chasing.
I’m the type that must succeed at my first attempts at something in order to have fun, and if I’m not, will soon be crushed to conclude (as I always do) that ‘I must be naturally bad at this.’
Archer understood this about me. He coached me as if I was already a capable skier. Actually, a ‘great skier’, as he often had me repeat.
“You’re a great skier! You can do this! Don’t look down the hill, keep your eyes on me!” He’d patiently rinse and repeat these phrases, guiding me in zig-zags through green runs I’d clear at a snail’s pace. Soon enough, I could keep up with him and Milly. Soon, I could ski by myself.
His confidence in my ability, real or fake, never wavered. It strengthened my confidence in myself; it watered the seeds of my burgeoning skills.
I accepted his errors, trusted his advice, and chose to believe his increasing compliments. Though I’d fall every ten minutes, his advice slowly stuck.
Bend your knees! Lean forward! Legs closer together, eyes on your path!
And eventually, even you can do this!
- Constanze
Wonderful article on the art of learning by pushing through your fears. I will use “rinse and repeat” , I promise you. Very nice.
Feels like I was there! Thanks for the ride🤣