In Maine, many people learn how to downhill ski or snowboard when they’re children. It’s a common family tradition, a way to pass the long winter — whether at one of the state’s big ski resorts or a local hill.
Not for me. Not my family.
Growing up in Maine, I built snowmen and snow forts. I went ice fishing, sledding and skating. But I never learned how to cruise down a mountain on skis. I always thought it looked fun, but it wasn’t something that my family did.
As an adult, I’ve watched with envy as friends enjoyed sunny days on slopes, riding chairlifts and — what’s the phrase? Shredding powder?
I considered learning how to downhill ski, but I was afraid for two reasons.
First, I didn’t want to get hurt. Now in my 30s, I’m not quite as durable as I was as a child. Plus, a leg injury would put me out of work as a hiking guide.
But my second reason was a tad vain. I didn’t want to be embarrassed. I’m somewhat of a perfectionist, and I was worried that I’d simply be bad at skiing.
This fear wasn’t entirely fueled by self-doubt. As a teen, I spent one day attempting to learn how to snowboard. I took a class, and the instructor was so busy juggling students that I didn’t get much instruction. I remember falling, over and over. By the end of the day, bruises covered my body and tears had frozen to my face.
I worried that learning to downhill ski would be similarly difficult and painful, but that turned out to not be the case.
You see, I finally took the leap. This winter, I took a private lesson at Sugarloaf, Maine’s largest ski resort, and to my surprise, I had a blast.
As soon as I started sliding down the bunny slope on rental skis, I realized that I didn’t need to be quite so afraid. I found it easy to slow down and stop — a crucial ability in my opinion. Feeling in control eased my anxiety about crashing into other people. (It was February vacation week, so there were many opportunities for me to wipe out a wee child. Fortunately, I did not.)
It helped that I have some experience cross-country skiing, which requires some of the same movements.
My instructor had decades of experience, and he was generous with his knowledge. We performed goofy exercises like gliding sideways across a hill while lifting the skis one at a time. Everything we did was about learning to control the skis with various movements: a tilt of the foot, a bend of the knee.
“You control the skis from your feet up,” he told me.
While riding together on chairlifts, we discussed skiing theories. He explained how skis are like knives. Laid flat, they can spread the butter, or snow, as they slide down a slope. Pressed on their edges, they can cut into the snow, causing you to slow down or stop.
My confidence built throughout the day as I rode ski lifts higher up the mountain to try easy trails, traced in green on the map. After the lesson, I skied until the lifts shut down for the night. Since then, I’ve returned to the mountain twice, practicing my skills and experimenting with movements.
I don’t want you to think it was all smooth skiing. I fell a few times. While I didn’t injure myself, I couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed.
On one occasion, I tangled my skis and started to careen out of control. To make matters worse, a skier riding a nearby chairlift started yelling down at me. “Pizza! Pizza!”
The term pizza is used to describe a beginner’s skill where you angle the front tips of your skis together, forming a triangle, like a slice of pizza. It’s also called a snow plow, and it slows you down.
Being heckled from the chairlift is a right of passage on a ski mountain, I’ve been assured. But that didn’t stop me from feeling a mixture of humiliation and outrage as my skis slid out from under me.
Flustered, I struggled back onto my skis, dusted the snow off my jacket and slowly continued my descent, trying to concentrate on my movements and forget that anyone might be watching me.
It didn’t take me long to realize that people fall all the time while skiing, and that it’s a part of the experience. On the easy trails, seeing people fall is especially common because so many, regardless of age, are learning. Instead of sticking out like a sore thumb (something I feared), I fit right in.
Learning how to ski isn’t just about mastering a physical skill. It’s also about understanding the skiing culture and etiquette.
It’s leaving your skis on a rack outside the base lodge instead of carrying them through the doors and confusing everyone. It’s accepting that you will walk like an uncomfortable astronaut in stiff ski boots. It’s learning how easy it is to drop a mitten off a chairlift, thus losing it forever.
I find the skiing community to be refreshing and upbeat. It’s a group of people who celebrate rather than grumble about cold days and snowfall. They wish for more winter rather than for it to be over.
Yet I’d be remiss to not mention the monetary cost of skiing. Equipment is expensive. Skis, ski boots, poles, a helmet, goggles and the right clothes are all necessities. Unless you’re backcountry skiing, you need to purchase lift tickets, too.
If you’ve been wanting to learn how to ski and you have some money to spare, I encourage you to give it a try. Small ski mountains can be less expensive. And ski swaps are a great place to find used equipment for cheap.
Don’t be afraid to ask advice from experienced skiers, and consider taking a lesson to get started.
I’m glad that I finally tackled my fear and discovered one more way to enjoy the winter.
