Too Cool for Ski School

There are two days that I remember cursing so profanely that I would’ve fit right in with the “Wolf of Wall Street” characters. The first day was when the cast list for “Legally Blonde” was posted outside the front office in eighth grade — I wasn’t even listed under ensemble. The second day was the first time I tried skiing.

When I learned that my mom had “big plans” for our family’s spring break trip to Europe, I began to dream of all the gelato and swiss cheese I would be eating while walking down cobblestone streets. Then my mom broke the news that those big plans included skiing — and that’s when my cussing streak began.

On the off chance that my Swiss skiing instructor spoke broken English, I thought it would be best to try out skiing with a few of my fellow Harbinger staff members before my big trip. While I don’t live anywhere near mountainous terrain, I do happen to live just close enough to Weston, Mo., home of Snow Creek, an artificial ski mountain.

After hitting the slopes as the ski pros would say, I realize that my chances of being even above average at skiing are equivalent to my chances of becoming the President. After each fall, I found myself just lying with my face in the snow. I thought it would be better if I just stayed there since I would be right back where I was in about five minutes. However, I did my best to celebrate my (tiny) victories during my time skiing all while overcoming my embarrassment of looking like a newborn deer just learning how to walk.

I arrived at Snow Creek with high expectations: it was 50 degrees outside and I was ready to be a student at the “Lizzie Kahle, Dalton Reck and Reilly Moreland School of Skiing.” But I left Snow Creek with two seemingly broken ankles, a GoPro filled with videos of my wipeouts and a bruised ego.

As soon as I walked into the rental barn, I felt like I do during an AP Physics test: I knew nothing. Normally it is Lizzie who is asking me to tie her shoes, but now it was me asking her to help put on my ski boots.

After a good 25 minutes, I finally learned what size poles I needed and how to clip into my skis (toe, then heel), I pulled down my goggles and was ready to hit the slopes. I thought it was best for me to start on flat ground, just learning the basic movements. For some reason — probably because Lizzie wanted more reasons to make fun of me — my instructors thought it was better for me to learn on top of the hill.

As I found myself scooting down the hill and crashing into my friends for support, I noticed all the five-year-olds surrounding me who looked like they learned to ski before they learned to walk. I was the 18-year-old who could barely move three feet without a ski popping.

I texted my mom: “You and dad failed me by not teaching me how to ski when I was younger.”

She just sent a laughing emoji back. It was synonymous to the faces of Lizzie, Dalton and Reilly every time I would fall.

Thirty minutes, 10 f-bombs and five falls later, I reached my safe haven — flat ground. I saw a dad look down at his son who was half my size and say, “Wow 59 seconds down the mountain bud, not bad!” Hearing this made my face turn the color of my bright pink ski goggles.

On my second run down the bunny hill, I got pretty good at one thing: stopping. I learned that “pizza skis” would make my knees buckle, and “french fry skis” were much more effective.  I was so scared of picking up speed that I maxed out at five miles per hour before I had to turn my legs to stop myself. I was applauded by my group every time I was able to stop because they were finally able to teach me something — even if it was the lamest part of skiing.

After three more awkward and painful runs down the bunny hill, we took a lunch break. While biting into my pulled pork sandwich that definitely was not catered from Q39, I was able to talk myself into trying out the ski lift. Sure, you don’t have skiing down, but you can definitely stand up and get off a lift, right?  

Apparently getting off a ski lift with 160 cm-long skis is a lot more awkward than if you are just wearing tennis shoes. I went on the ski lift three times; I fell getting off the ski lift three times.  

I felt incredibly embarrassed wearing a GoPro on my helmet when I couldn’t even get off the ski lift without having to scoot on my butt to make sure the lift didn’t hit me. I hope Dalton is prepared to edit out all of my cussing and the footage of me just lying on the ground for his video.

When I got down on myself for not being able to make it down the bunny hill in one run without stopping, Lizzie, Dalton and Reilly poured out all their horror stories from their first time learning to ski — I tried to drown out the pity in their voices.

I didn’t experience a better feeling that day then unshackling my feet from my ski boots to finally relieve my swollen ankles. After packing up all our soaking wet ski pants and gloves, I felt all the endorphins and dopamine rush back into my brain; we were finally done skiing, and I was ecstatic.

While I didn’t come to Snow Creek expecting to leave a contender for the USA Olympic Slalom Skiing Team, I did think I would leave knowing how to do more than just clip into skis. I can only hope my ski instructor in Switzerland speaks perfect English.