Seven years ago, I went skiing for the second time in my life. I was super excited to try to keep up with my friends - who were infinitely more experienced than me and by my middle school logic, infinitely cooler. I pushed myself past the bunny slopes and ventured off with them. A timeless fly down the mountain, a fast, nasty accident and several hospital visits later, however, I became very pro-lumberjack and swore off winter sports for the rest of my life.
Deciding to (potentially) throw myself back into the woes of a snowy death was not an easy decision. Flashbacks of myself lying inside an awkward yellow toboggan as the first aid team skied me out of the woods continuously interrupted my weak attempt to calm myself on the ride to the resort. When I voiced my fears to my friends, instead of offering me words of wisdom, they laughed, and rightly so. Running into a tree on skis sounds - and feels - exactly like it would in a cartoon: rapidly scurrying and falling to try to avoid it, raising your eyebrows really high when you realize you're about to hit it, smacking into it with both your legs and arms sticking straight out and yelling a really loud, one-syllable word in response. It's just as ridiculous, and just as funny - after the fact, anyway.
Going up the ski lift, I started to cry. Here in this moment of truth, one of my friends became genuinely concerned for my well-being, and offered to ride the lift back down with me if I really wanted to. And there was my pivotal decision point. Which was worse: Having to make awkward eye contact with every single person on their way up the mountain from the other side of the lift as I shamefully rode my way back down, unable to conquer my fears? Or sucking it up at the top of the mountain, holding my breath as I pushed off, crossing my fingers (and surely my skis), hoping for the best? I was already at the resort, had already paid for the day and was already on the lift. So, I decided to take my chances and go.
I had already learned my lesson about trying to go down slopes I knew I couldn't conquer. I started out on a bunny slope, surrounded by little kids as their parents told them to make a pizza slice with their skis so they didn't lose control. I pretended I wasn't eavesdropping and mimicking their every move, but when my friend saw me staring at a family and then my own pizza slice skis and called me out, I realized there was nothing else for which I could prepare. I just had to go. Scanning the top of the hill and picking the path that kept me the furthest away from any greenery that even slightly resembled a tree, I took a deep breath and told myself that I could do this without dying. Before I had the chance to second-guess myself, I had dug my poles into the ground and pushed myself forward.
I wasn't going fast at all. Small children were zooming past me. But I was still moving! Down the hill I nervously glanced at my feet, making sure to bring the tops of my skis in when I got scared about going too fast. The wind was on my face, the path was laid out in front of me, and I finally made it to the end without even falling down once. It must have been a miracle! I excitedly told my friends how exhilarating it felt to have conquered this little baby hill, and we rushed to get back on the lift.
Again and again, I inched my way down the hill, increasing my speed each time until I was comfortable enough to actually go down fast enough to keep up with my friends - who were nice enough to rotate between skiing with me and doing more challenging runs. When I realized I was about to fall for the first time, I thought I was going to roll over in the same kind of pain I did in the woods, waiting until someone saw me on the lift so I could get help. But I just plopped down on my bum, and it didn't hurt at all. Grinning, I got back up and pushed myself forward down the hill.
I'm so glad I decided to get off that first lift ride. Although it took every ounce of effort in me to stay at the top of the mountain and not safely ride my way back on the lift, I knew deep down that I wanted to try again. I'm not the type of person to let one event dictate how I feel about something, and relearning to ski - no matter how intimidating - was one of my favorite (albeit safer) adventures yet.
Leslie's column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at l.keena@cavalierdaily.com.
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