Why Beginner Skiers Are the Bravest Among Us

I don’t remember learning how to ski. My mom says that it was sometime around my first steps, but I wasn’t exactly banking memories at that point. My little legs were pliable rubber bands, and fear receptors hadn’t quite developed. All that to say, I lucked the eff out. Have you skied as or with a beginner recently? It’s…terrifying. I’m not just talking about the physical act of learning how to ski, which is difficult on its own, but learning to french fry down the slopes while the world zooms past in a state of reckless abandon—that’s downright spine-chilling. A few seasons ago, I got my friend Jess out on the hill after a long hiatus. She’d been on skis before, but this day was all about getting back into rhythm. Nice and easy. That is, until I turned around. Arcing leisurely turns, I tried to create a fun little roadmap for Jess to follow, or at least a less intimidating experience for a Fairweather skier. But, as I meandered toward the edge of the trail, I looked briefly uphill and watched my life flash before my eyes. A skier going Mach 500 (or at least 15 mph) buzzed my purview. Seconds later, a little kid in a red coat nearly sliced the tails off my skis. Shaken, I surveyed the panorama above me. Dozens of skiers felt like they were flying right at me, a minefield in motion, cascading downhill—fast. I looked to Jess, eyes wide. Was this for real? Look, I’ve skied a lot of puckering lines in my day, but have you ever tried skiing slow? Holy Gwyneth Paltrow, this might be the scariest thing on two planks—and maybe the world. You try to find an edge on boilerplate ice with no speed while monitoring the heat-seeking arsenal of ex-racers, edgeless park rats, and ski school superstars. This is not for the meek. Oh, and that whaleback over there? Yeah, you’re about to be slow and invisible. Thoughts and prayers. On that fateful day with Jess, I think I spent more time sweating than actual skiing. How could something that had always come second nature suddenly be petrifying? I tried my best to keep a straight face, and we mercifully finished the day in one piece. Walking back to the parking lot, I felt like I’d just emerged from an emotional washing machine. Disheveled, I tried desperately to formulate some kind of apology, a way to admit my past wrongs and somehow cover for the community I now considered an unredeemable menace. But, before I could get the words out, Jess intercepted. “That was great,” she said, smiling. “When are we going again?”