I almost got comfortable skiing because of my dad. Every season, from the time I was five till high school, Dad would take me on at least one skiing trip to teach me how to ski.
He didn’t start me off on the mountain or even the bunny hill at first. He put me on a snowdrift in the parking lot and had me slide down to the lawn below, all while he held me so I could get used to the feeling of skiing without risking injury. Eventually, we graduated to the bunny hill, and finally to an easy mountainside. Dad never let me out of arm’s reach, and was always there to guide and support me as I learned how to ski. With his guidance, I knew I was safe on the mountain, especially since he tested the runs for ice and traffic before he took me on any of them.
However, two incidents scared me out of skiing, probably forever. When I was eleven years old, my grandpa Lyle and grandma Connie were involved in a horrific freak skiing accident. A snowboarder going way too fast for the mountain plowed into my grandparents (who were just finishing their final run of the day), shattering my grandpa’s leg in several places, and nearly putting my grandma into a coma. Thankfully, my grandparents survived, but not without permanent injuries. My grandpa will forever have a massive metal rod in his leg, and some of my grandma’s nerves were permanently damaged in her legs. Because of this incident (which happened early in the season), I refused to go to the mountain with my dad that year.
The second time was when I went on a spring-break trip to Breckenridge with Clarke and my half-half siblings. Clarke’s way of teaching skiing was way different than my dad’s. He essentially slapped a helmet and a pair of skis on me and my little half-brother, Jack (who I live with and consider a full brother), stuck us on a lift, and shoved me onto the icy slope when I refused to move after getting off the lift. Jack was perfectly happy sliding down the slopes with his dad, because he never seemed to have an anxious bone in his body. Me, on the other hand? Well, I was fucking terrified. I remained in the “pizza” position the whole way down the mountain, dodging skiers and snowboarders left and right. When I miraculously survived the trip to the bottom, my leg muscles were so locked up that Clarke had to pick me up and carry me to the ski resort cafe, fireman-style, because I couldn’t walk.
Just as I regained feeling in my legs, ski patrol called Clarke to inform them that Hannah (my little half-half sister, or Jack’s half-sister. Confusing, I know) had crashed into a tree going forty miles an hour. Her snowboard and phone were literally snapped in two. Thankfully, besides some bruises and a sprained foot, she was just fine. Her board had taken the brunt of the impact, and dispersed it elsewhere. But, I haven’t even touched a pair of skis since then. Even if my dad promised to tie a rope around my waist, wrap me in bubble-wrap, and only take me on bunny hills, I would be scared shitless the entire time. I just can’t do it.
Trust me, learning how to ski would be great. In a way, I feel like I’m betraying my Colorado Native status by not skiing. But, I’ve just been traumatized out of it, and not even the most experienced, level-headed skiers can coax me back onto the slopes. It really sucks, but if I can’t even think about skiing without my stomach knotting up, how on God’s green earth can I even begin to overcome my skiing fear?
Logically, I know I can work on my fear of skiing if I really wanted to. But, truth is, skiing just isn’t on my list of things I want to do. Without that motivation to overcome my skiing phobia, it’s impossible for me to garner the courage to chip away at it. However, there are lots of things that, to me, are just as scary as skiing that I would love to do. It just takes a ton of effort.
