Warren Miller Essay Contest

Thump. “I would like to sign up for the ‘Learn to Ski’ clinic.” Thump. I can hear my own heartbeat. All my senses are heightened. The sound of the plastic boots against the hard cold floor is like that of bombs going off. I look at the people in the lodge and they look back. Can they sense my fear? I head down into the basement, the rental room, a windowless dungeon of torture. They fit the bindings on my rentals. I feel like I’m being fitted for a noose. I’m 26 years old, not a spry young bendable youth. I am quite breakable. All of a sudden, this seems like a bad idea.

Out onto the snow we go, the temperature is mild and the flakes are coming down lightly. I clumsily skate over to the magic carpet. I feel ridiculous as groups of toddlers ski past me with grace and finesse. I know that everyone is silently judging my wool gloves, $30 ski jacket, and size 130cm skis. As the carpet ascends the slope, not much steeper than an ADA approved wheelchair ramp, my breathing becomes more rapid. Snowplow and parallel, pizza and French-fries.

I slip off the carpet onto the freshly groomed snow. At this point, something happens. This white crystalline frozen water takes hold of me. The infection is fast and permanent. During the first awkward snowplow turns, something awakes from deep within. At this moment, time stops and there is nothing but me, the sound of the snow under my skis, the wind on my face, and the mountain itself. I can feel its force and its power.

After three runs on the bunny slope, the instructor decides that I am a very fast learner and that we are going on the chair lift. Into the lift line, bump to the butt, and off we go. The mountain air is crisp and clean. I watch as a group of young skiers impress each other on small jumps. We come to the landing where I find myself looking down at an amazingly steep slope. The mixture of adrenaline, natural beauty, and speed creeps its way into every fiber of my being.

The addiction ran deep, very deep. This first ascent on the bunny slope was only two years ago. After skiing an entire season in New Hampshire and Vermont, I write this essay as broke as a person can be only five miles from the Chugach Mountains of Alaska with the first flakes of the season falling gently outside my door. I came here to ski the wild maritime powder of the Great North. I gave up everything to enjoy a life of wintry communion with the immense power of the mountains. I am a skier. It only took me twenty-six years to figure it out.

Positively loving this thread.

Up there with this one: https://www.newschoolers.com/web/forums/readthread/thread_id/30157/

The devastating ride

When I was a young boy, or toddler even, I never seemed to enjoy the outdoors too much. On rainy days other kids on the block would throw on their water-resistant coveralls and thrash around in the mud; I would play alone at home crafting spacecrafts from Legos. Summertime for others meant the ability to swim all day and frolic in the sun, while I saw it as an opportunity to stay inside and dabble with videogames. However, there was something that changed, clicked, inside me when the magical blessing of the skies started floating gently towards ground. My parents never pushed me too hard into any sport and let me decide on my own what I want to do. During the winter there was no need to push me in any direction – it was me who craved to be let outside and enjoy everything related to snow. I would often come home soaking wet after hours of snowball fights, sliding down icy hills and jumping into large piles of fluffy snow. I would always be smiling like an idiot after those days.

When I had turned five, we were on a skiing trip in Lapland with my family and friends. As I saw the slopes before me, my father asked if I would like to try skiing down the bunny hill. I rashly declined, pointed my gloved hand towards the larger and steeper slopes and declared: “No, I want to go down the big ones.” My parents shrugged their shoulders, rented me a pair of skis and boots and were going to accompany me to the lift, when suddenly my uncle popped into the conversation: “You know, I could take him up safely and show him how it’s done!” Little did I know that their unified decision would rid my appetite for skiing for a decade.

As I sat next to my uncle in the chairlift, my heart began to rejoice. It would be my first try ever skiing down a hill with a pair of straight skis strapped to my feet. We disembarked from the lift and slid to the edge of the slope: it was steeper than it looked from the bottom. I was ready to take the plunge, little by little and get adjusted to the art of skiing, when my uncle grabbed me, positioned me between his skis in front of him and said: “Alright, let’s bomb the hill! Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.” He pushed us forward and I was absolutely terrified; I had no control over my actions as my uncle held tight onto me. He didn’t make a single turn or speed check, he just let her rip all the way down the hill and I was petrified, my heart pounding so fast I felt like dying as the lack of control increased my fear. Finally we made it to the end and I furiously declared: “Never again, never again!” Those words would hold true for ten more years.

threads, gona get my story in soon

This and gators are potential winners.

My new beginning

My first encounter with the lust for strapping into two planks of wood came in extraordinary circumstances. This was due to the fact that I lived in a small city surrounded by harsh desert environment that recurrently had 55 degree heat. I had never even seen snow and I could only compare it to the occasional clouds that I occasionally ventured through. This, in itself was an amazing encounter, gliding through a blanket of powder with grace and purpose and although I didn’t recognise it at the time the small desert city that I was used to was steadily increasing in size and gaining a global reputation. Dubai was now the focal point for huge mega projects such as the tallest building in the world, largest man made islands and above all the longest indoor ski dome in the world. So it was to my great surprise when my local friend offered to take me skiing. I casually agreed not wanting to sound like a fool in front of a new friend. We agreed to meet at my house where was told to bring my warmest jumper and gloves. I blindly acknowledged wondering to myself what I was getting myself into. So off we went on a half hour journey across the desert heading in the direction of Mall Of The Emirates. As you can imagine that first blast of air-conditioning was a welcoming feeling but nothing compared to what I would soon endure. We hastily loaded up with the Ski Dubai uniforms and set off up the escalator. As the escalator neared its end and I was greeted by the startling white that I previously could only associate clouds with. That instant took my breath away and I stood there startled by this sight. Following this was the realisation of freezing cold; it had dropped 50 degrees in 5 minutes. I felt a chill run down my spine that was one of both adrenaline and cold. At this point I was trembling as I managed to click into my bindings after several subsequent tries, and slowly lumbered over to the chair lift. As I sat there, both feet dangling, I felt for the first time in my short life a real sense of purpose. My mind swelled with emotion and before I had time to take in all the plastic trees, the tremendous freeze and the rumbling of the generators I was at the top. My advice came in typical Arabic fashion “point downhill and then turn at the bottom”. Thinking this as easy feet I pointed downhill and was away, once again I was reminded of the gliding sensation of being in the sky with not a care insight. The feeling had cancelled out all of the negative emotions from the day such as small boots, body-odor bathed outerwear and the itchiness of my helmet.
Although I have no pictures from the day I still have the vision implanted in my mind as the greatest of my life.

The end


I know that this has little chance of winning but any thoguht of skiing even if it only occupies a half hour spot is an unmissable one.

StartFragment

Thank You Donna Newberry

There I was, a 10 year olddesperately waiting for my “chaperon” to tell me I can go down. She gave me theok, so I strapped in my boots, turned sideways and headed down that hugemountain known as Clearfork Ski Resort, Ohio. I started to pick up speed goingone hundred percent straight all the way down the huge hill. I was gettingcloser to the bottom every second. Well there was one thing I didn’t reallythink through. I had absolutely no idea how to stop a snowboard. So I find abright orange fence at the end within a matter of seconds. I looked around andhad realized I was off the snow on a pile of gravel with my board tangled intothe fence. I was done trying to snowboard, forever

Isaid screw it, let me try to ski. I went to the rental area, switched all myequipment, and headed back out to the hill. Was I cocky with my skis, yes. Iwent straight for the lift instead of that dumb rope tow that hurt my back. Igot onto the lift with my instructor Donna Newberry from my church. She told meit was going to be a piece of cake getting off the lift. I believed her. We gotto the top and of course she told me to put my skis up and lean back a little.I leaned back, just a little too much. I got to the top and slid backseat on myskis down the small hill off the lift. I was stuck on my back as others try tododge my head. Donna helped me up and that was behind me from now on. I wasready to ski!

Ipushed on over to the expert “bowl” run which was 1 of 4 runs open in January.She said lets go and before I knew it, I could actually make it down to thebottom in a slight turn while every second I feel like I am going to breaksomething. But, I got to the bottom and literally fell in love. I had to dothat again! We went back up and Donna and I began to race and who won, ofcourse I did! I beat her every time down that 500 ft trail. I was %110 set onskiing the rest of my life.

Thatday literally changed my life. Skiing is my life and I love it more thananything. If it wasn’t for Donna Newberry taking our church on that ski trip, Iwould have never knew what skiing was like. Now Clearfork is closed and I justwish I could take Donna now and show her how I am at 18, but Donna is sufferingfrom Breast Caner and is sadly on her death bed. She will always be rememberedin my heart by giving me a passion and a life long sport.

EndFragment

I remember very little about my first time skiing. I believe I was either 2 or 3 years old and my with my family at a gathering in Kimberly in the 1980s. I remember swimming in the pool with my water wings. I remember the sketchy yellow lamp light of the hotel room. I remember my Grandpa tying a rope around me and us ripping around the mountain.

Threads!

My essay went 37 words over the limit - I apologize profusely (I don't).

Florida isn’t known for having the greatest snow on Earth - I think the snow once fell from the sky down there, but I’ll be damned if it ever touched the ground. While the highest point of Florida is a staggering 345ft, the lack of snow made it incredibly difficult for the grandson of Arthur Hunt (of Tey Manufacturing) to follow his destiny.

I’m that grandson. I grew up in Florida, spent about thirteen years beholden to the whims of hurricanes, baseball, and the public school that eventually threw me out. My only escapes from that awful reality were my Schwinn BMX bike and the nearest VANS Skate park, but only on Thursday nights because VANS didn’t always allow bikes in.

Life in Florida wasn’t all bad; my parents noticed pretty early on that I was not bound for the train to traditional. They enrolled me in extra-curricular studies, the school’s band, and tried to help me achieve academic excellence. While actually at school, academic excellence was a cake-walk – when assignments were sent home, I found the entirely too exciting nature of grade school homework assignments too much for my over-stimulated brain to handle.  Or at least, that’s the crap I told my parents. I was bored; I yearned for something greater.

As luck would have it, at about the age of nine I was considered old enough to go on the family’s annual outing. Now, remember that Arthur Hunt guy, my grandpa? He, along with the other two engineers that comprised the Tey Manufacturing group, had done some pretty extraordinary things with the ski industry. The members of the Tey group, along with the Metallite process from employer Chance-Vought, created the first aluminum ski with a wood core. Incorporating the benefits of  both wood-based ski design and metal-based ski design with few of the drawbacks was a huge step forward in ski design philosophy. While the aluminum bases of the Metallite-made ski didn’t hold wax very well, my grandpa and his group of dastardly engineers never got the chance to solve that problem, Chance-Vought never released the Metallite patent.

So it was with baited breath and unbridled anticipation that I boarded the Boeing jet for the four hour odd flight to Salt Lake City, Utah from Orlando, Florida. I had never seen snow before, I had never felt snow before, and I didn’t even know that there was such a thing as snow much less what you could do with it. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I felt a change. I knew I was where I was supposed to be. I’m not talking about some romantic, idealized bullshit – the world, for probably the first time, finally felt right; my mind was continually blown on that trip, from the drive up the canyon staring at the snowy walls to the first time I put feet to sticks and sticks to snow.

It wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns, I still lived in Florida – but I knew what I wanted, and while I still haven’t achieved my dreams, I’m now living in Utah and closer than ever to that white and fluffy nirvana. Skiing is quite literally in my blood, and I’ve just gotten warmed up.

Skiing for Myself

Connor Ollive

Unlike most people you hear in ski movies or on the hill, I didnot start skiing when I was three, I wasn’t hooked immediately; and no in fact,I was not a skier from the womb. But what I can tell you is that skiing is somethingthat I caught on to fast. I can also tell you that no matter how old you are, youcan get caught up in the magnificent world of skiing. I may regret these nextfew words, but I started as a snowboarder when I was 10 or so. The weird thingis, I only did it so I could say I was a snowboarder, I did it because I thoughtit was cool and I thought everyone would thing I was popular. Truth is, I hatedit, I hated the teacher, I hated the other kids in my snowboarding group, I justdisliked every aspect of the sport. Don’t get me wrong, I have a great respectfor snowboarders, they are extremely talented and I love to shred alongsidethem. The day I popped those slippery sticks on my feet was the Christmas of2006, I was 13 years old, and compared to many professional skiers in the sporttoday, that’s pretty old to get started. I had my cousin teach me and after afull day, I left frustrated and discouraged. Not one for failure I didn’t enjoyall the falling I did, I watched the terrain park in envy of all the tricks I sawthe other kids doing. So the very next day I was determined, I came to the hilloptimistic and ready to learn, I put my stubborn attitude in the back of mymind and went to work. It took a couple days but I soon discovered I had anatural talent for the sport of skiing. It’s not a great story in retrospect, butas I look back I realized that, that Christmas was probably the Christmas thatshaped the rest of my teen years. Every year I get a little better, and everyyear I get a little more addicted, it’s a sport that I can really escape with, andI truly want to become a professional skier when I leave high school. Sure I knowthere are thousands of kids better than me, but I don’t let that get me downanymore. I think the main thing when it comes to skiing is to have fun, and tosay that these last 5 years hasn’t been fun, would be a complete and total lie.I’ve had the opportunity to push myself and meet some of my idols in the process.My name is Connor Ollive, I’m 16 years old, and I hope one day I will be aprofessional skier; one of which gets to live out his dream every day. Addictionis associated with negativity, but I hardly call this addiction negative, I dothis for myself and I couldn’t be happier.

Thinking back six years ago, remembering my first day on skis isn’t hard. In 9th grade, my father gave me the choice to either get a pair of skis or play ice hockey. I chose the skis. What do both skiing and ice hockey have in common though? Well the obvious is the cold and ice (especially on the east coast), however there is one other characteristic that the two share. The other characteristic in my case is both have the ability to knock teeth out of your mouth.

My first day on skis was one wild ride. My local mountain is Ski Roundtop where RoundtopRiders grew along with Steve Stepp, Tom Wallisch and Tom Warnick. I remember the evening to be very cold and icy, however that never stops an east coast rider from having fun. I barely was able to ski the mountain, however since I was an avid snowboarder before, I wanted to hit rails and boxes even if I could barely ski. A boarder friend of mine wanted to session a roller coaster box that was fifty-three feet in length, with two humps and a kick at the end. After numerous attempts, I eventually got the whole box once. When my friend suggested I try it one last time, I jumped at the chance. *Insert the number one skiing rule* Never Call Last Run.

I glide up to the box, jump to turn 90 onto it. I slide right foot forward and when my right ski tip got caught under the box, tragedy struck. I ended up smashing my face off the box along with my hand. As I get up, I feel my mouth warm and the taste of blood. The next thing I know, I’m yelling where are my teeth, where are my teeth. I ended up knocking out the front tooth along with the tooth beside it. As I am throwing my equipment around, none other than Steve Stepp rolls up with his crew. As I had just gotten my braces off two weeks before, I asked them to help find my teeth as a joke. However, my parents didn’t find it as funny.

Two new teeth and a broken thumb later, I still love skiing just as much as my first night. The industry is where I belong. Because of my first experience, I learned the most important rule to skiing. Always have fun! I guess never call last run could be a good one too.

StartFragment

I only have one true memory from my first day on snow. I amfour years old and had just pointed my skis straight downhill until I slid to astop. There I stood, snow falling on my face, staring at peak that disappearedinto falling clouds.

Inthat moment, standing frozen in wonder, I left a piece of myself on the side ofthe mountain. A part of me that rooted itself as deep as the trees thatsurrounded me. Every year that part of me comes alive when the temperaturedrops, and the leaves have been shed, and the snow starts to fall on themountains outside of town. As the storms roll in over the peaks to the west myheart starts to beat in my chest and I realize I can feel it again.

EndFragment

StartFragment

When I left for college two months ago, I chose two pictures to bring with me. One was a picture of my girlfriend and the other was a picture of a four-year-old version of myself on skis for the first time. There is nothing particularly unique, or captivating about the photo. I am simply standing by the magic carpet in an awkward pizza wedge, leaning backwards with my hands at my hips wearing a backwards power rangers baseball hat along with an oversized pair of blue mirrored 80s sunglasses. Then to complete the look, I have a dribble of buggers dangling from my nose coupled by some spittle lingering around a stupidly ecstatic grin.

I think that many skiers can relate to this picture because it is typical example of what most beginner gapers under the age of 10 look like. However, while most skiers can relate to this photo, it holds very strong personal meaning for me. This photo embodies the role skiing has had in my life since the days of backwards power ranger hats and extreme wedges. I admit that I cannot remember any of the events that tookplace during my first day on snow, but I remember the feeling. Yes I felt frustrated, yes I felt confused, but most of all, I felt alive. The towering mountains, the sparkling snow, the tranquility of nature and the eager anticipation of “when will I go on the lift” or “when will I go to the top”breathed a new vitality into me. The picture on my desk could not portray that feeling any clearer.

I have changed very much since thedays of pizzas and french fries, but skiing’s role in my life has remained constant. Whether I was conquering my first lift ride, or trying my first backflip, skiing has been a provider of a special life force. It is very difficult to explain the life force that comes from skiing, but I think that any person who has linked turns knows the feeling I am talking about. Anyway, the picture on my desk serves as a constant reminder of the joy skiing brings into my life.It reminds me that even as a nineteen year old, I can experience the same joy Ifelt as a slobbery four-year-old. As long as I am skiing, there will still be a bit of my stupidly ecstatic four-year-old self left in me. So to all you skiers on NS, anybodyreading ski journal, Warren Miller, or any skier who happens to read this, take some time to reflect upon how much skiing has given you and keep chasing that feeling.

EndFragment

my first day skiing was quite possibly the worst day of my life. my aunt took me skiing for my 7th birthday. it was cold and snowy. i was not prepared for what i was about to endure. no gloves, goggles or any other sort of beneficial article of clothing on my body. i took a few runs on the bunny hill and learned how to stop, i was ready for the chair lift. got to the top, ripped a few laps going straight and fast, then hitting the brakes at the bottom. finally ski patrol warned me to slow down, i was skiing out of control, so i was like fuck this noise and continued to speed down the hill wildly. by now the cold weather and wet snow soaked through all my clothes. the icy runs wouldn't let me turn even if i had known how to. i shot off to the side of a trail, fell on my back and continued to slide until i ended up on a dark closed icy run. my hands had begun to bleed from trying to stop myself on the ice from sliding into the trees to the side of the trail. after withering in pain for a few moments i began to gather my scattered belongings. i was now only wearing a wet/frozen buffalo bills sweat shirt i had just received as a gift, jeans and one sock. my improperly latched rear entry boots had rocketed off still attached to my skis along with my other sock. i did not want walk into the dark heavily wooded trail so i tried my luck at hiking back up the hill to get on the main trail. my frozen, mostly bare feet could not acquire the proper traction to walk up the icy western new york ski slope. i would have to make the venture into the unlit trail. my whole body trembling in fear of what lie ahead in the dark, or maybe i may had been getting hypothermia, i am not sure. i persevered into the forest deeper and deeper. i could see the light ahead but was not sure if i would ever make it there. i met with another lit trail, dumped everything i was carrying and made haste to the lodge. i went to first aid, grabbed a handful of band aids and called my mother to pick me up. Skiing sucks. i didnt touch those things again for another ten years.

Every winter, for as long as I can remember, my dad would take me skiing. My father started me out on skis the winter I could walk, and I have been on skis every winter since. In talking with him, the first time my mom let him take me with him was during a weekend trip to northern Michigan. He had bought a bungee chord tether that had a harness on it, that fit over my awesome one-piece neon green and yellow hand-me-down snow suit, and a handle for him to grasp. The tether worked good for the first few runs, however, it soon would separate me from my father.

“You were scared to death of the chair lift,” my dad recalls. Eventually, after a few rides up the purple bunny hill lift, I summoned up enough courage to ride beside him on the lift, instead of on his lap. “Everything was going good, until we got ready to unload,” he says with a suspenseful tone. My father picked me up, so he could carry me off the lift. He started to ski away from the chair with me in his arms. “All of the sudden you went rocketing out of my arms, back onto the chair,” he chuckles. Apparently, my dad forgot about his end of the tether and it got caught on the chair, when he picked me up.

“By the time the lift operator stopped the chair, you were already screaming and crying,” continues my father. The operator untangled and lifted me off that scary, purple chair. “You bawled and clung to me the whole way down the hill, and you didn’t stop cryin’ till I took the harness off you,” laughs my dad, “your mom was real happy with me.” I was too scared of the “mean purple chair,” so I stayed in the lodge with my mom, playing with my assortment of Matchbox cars by the fire.

The next day, my dad worked up enough courage in me to give skiing another go. “I got you to go with me again, but you made it clear that you were NOT going on the purple chair, and mom made it clear I was NOT to use the tether,” dad says. The day consisted of him holding me between his legs, me falling, and me crying. “All you wanted to do was go back in the lodge and play with your cars,” my dad remarks, “but, I wouldn’t let you.”

Fortunately, I persevered, and have grown to love skiing. Thanks for allowing me to share this joyous moment of my life with you. Listening to my dad tell his stories about my siblings and mines past ski experiences, has gotten me stoked for this upcoming season. More than that, it has me excited to teach my future children one of the best things that has ever happened to me, skiing.

A few years ago was the single greatest experience of my life; my first day skiing. All of my "friends"  would tell me year after year to go down to the local hill and give it a shot. They all said how relaxing and peaceful it was to be out on the slopes and this was something I needed because I was going through a rough time period. My parents had a pretty bad divorce in which I choose to get involved in. I realized that one day when I look back at this time of my life, I can say I did all I could to help. That I held nothing back. I felt like the whole world was on my 13 year old shoulders and I had no one to go to, since I had very few friends at the time. So one day my Dad finally took me to Perfect North Slopes, Indiana for my first day of skiing. I distinctly remember the agonizing pain of first trying and putting boots for the first time. I remember the half hour battle I had with my rental binding to get my boot in, and the overwhelming joy that came with the final success. Coming off the very first lift ride, I fell. Then proceeded to fall countless more times while going down my first run, but now looking back I believe this helped me to understand that in life you're going to fall; It's that smile on your face when you get up which is going to get you through it all.(pardon the cheesy rhyme) I realized that since I had arrived at Perfects' on Dec. 6th 2006 that I had a huge grin painted across my face the entire time. It was the first time in a long time that I wasn't thinking about my parents or the kids at school. I was enjoying myself. I became more and more addicted with each and every "S" turn and every pizza stop, and I loved that I could progress at any speed I was comfortable with. I knew I was no Tom Wallisch of the time but it was enough for me to have a clean slate where I decided all the outcomes, and I was in complete control of myself to learn how I wanted and go wherever I wanted on the 800ft vertical ''hill''. I remember being amazed at some kid who could do a 360 in the terrain park and looked up to the park skiers as gods. This first day of mine also helped me to climb a few rungs higher on my social development. That day I skied with a few of my ''friends'' which I could feel come closer and closer to me with each chairlift ride as we laughed and claimed about our previous run, and when I left that day I was so stoked to have found a hobby and a few friends that completely changed my life. This was my first day of a whole new chapter of my life.

I liked the idea and your writing, but you are off-topic and used Warren's monologue. Even if it was some kind of tribute attempt it felt kind of corny. IMHO.

The first time skied was approximately 15 years ago when I was three. I can’t recall much about the experience but all I remember was my dad saying, “Jonathan, slow down!” The memory of my first skiing experience was not as vivid as my first experience of true powder.

                Maine is well known for lobster, vacationing, and beautiful scenery. During the winter when the tourists leave, and the shops are closed everyone goes in their basements, blow the dust off their skis and head north. Mainers are known for their hard work. All the money I made during the summer, I spent on a seasons pass. During the February of 2007 all my hard work, my love for the sport, and my skill at convincing my mother, I headed north to Sugarloaf. Arriving to Sugarloaf, the conditions were the usual, ice! Little did we know that a massive low pressure system was heading up the east-coast. My father and I were watching the weather listening to Joe Cupo’s ecstatic mood about this snow system, “I am calling for a foot on the coast, and two and half feet up in the mountains.” My father knew that we were not leaving Sunday, we are staying through Tuesday.

                Monday morning I awoke a little hazed unaware of why I was still at the condo. I walked downstairs and opened the curtain. What was outside the window was snow. I don’t mean a glaze or a powdering of snow, there were pillows of snow! Everywhere I looked there were mounds and mounds of snow. I ate quickly, clicked on my boots, headed down to the lift, and got second chair of the day. I hopped on the quad and looked back at everyone in line; they cheered me and three others on the chair as we ascended into a winter wonderland. I have skied powder before but it was only 6 inches. The people in front of me all went right, so I went left. I came to a trail called comp hill. It runs underneath the chair and is a long steep fun trail. What occurred on that trail that day was like nothing ive ever experienced. I had the feeling of floating and true champagne powder. It felt like the mountain had no bottom and there was no such thing as ice. At every turn snow was in my face, the people on the chair were screaming, and I had a smile as wide as the Nile River.

                That day changed my life. I can remember every second, turn, and trail I skied. I did not want to leave but after the two days we had to go. The following year I purchased some powder skis and every powder day I charge the mountain hard. That memorable February day of 2007 is a day that I reminisce on when the skiing isn’t good, but there’s always hope that one day, maybe it will happen again.

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }

After hiking a hundred feet up the bunny trail I peered down at the gates we were told to ski around. 'Simple', I thought. I pointed my skis straight toward the first gate, couldn't turn and crashed. Completely frustrated, I looked up at my mother who happened to be watching, took off my skis, threw my poles and screamed “Skiing Sucks!!!”.

It was 1986 at Sunday River in Bethel, Maine. I was 9yrs old, found sports frustrating and my confidence was at an all time low. This was my first and last group lesson. My mother quickly realized I needed private instruction.

I reluctantly put my gear back on and was greeted by a bearded, long-haired hippie on skis. I was tense and skeptical, but he was calm and patient and lightened the mood. He said we were going up the lift and to drop the poles, I didn't need them. This sounded crazy, not only was skiing hard enough on the bunny trail, I now had to lose the poles that kept me balanced. I didn't think this was a good idea, but his aura inspired confidence and I agreed.

During this first lift ride he told me all the great things about skiing and a few instructions on how to turn and slow down. We were at the top of the trail and he set me up for what I imagined would be another disaster, but again, he inspired confidence and I began to open to the experience. I pointed my skis down the trail and with a few reminders I made turns and snow plowed. I then started going fast. I had found out thrill of speed, turning and stopping was no longer an interest or a concern.

We skied towards the bottom of the trail and I saw the instructor catch air. 'Whoa'. I couldn't get back to the lift fast enough. On the ride up he told me about air sense and not to lean too far forward or too far back. On the way down I went fast, I caught air, and was hooked.

This initial excitement turned into full obsession! After twenty four years of seasons passes, catching the first and last chair of the year, bumming around every major resort in North America, entire Summers thinking about the Winter and my fair share of life threatening moments and injuries, nothing has come between me and skiing.

For many years I've held off on starting a family with the fear of losing my freedom to ski, however in less then a couple weeks I will begin a new phase of my life, one that will be blessed with a new obsession, my first child, and it's boy. Now I have the opportunity to share my obsession. I look forward to helping him find the sport or hobby that helps him discover who he is and with any luck, like daddy, he will fall in love with the best sport on earth.

     Sugar Mountain in North Carolina opened in 1969.  I don't know the exact date because their records apparently don't go back that far.  Another reason that it kind of sucks getting older, but whatever day that was, that was my first day on skis. I was about 2 and a half and my parents were stoked to go hit the brand new ski area in N.C.  They left me in the capable hands of Heidi Benlechner, wife of Eric Benlechner who was the head of the ski school.  They were from Switzerland. 
     It proved to be very difficult to find any equipment that was small enough for me.  My parents ended up having to buy a pair of ski skates.  They were little wooden skis about 18 inches long with cable bindings and no edges.  My boots were kind of like old hiking boots, with very little ankle support, and Heidi could not get me to stand up.  She would lift me up, put me down on my feet, and as soon as she let go, I would just collapse and lay down. 
     My parents swung by to see how things were going and she gave them very specific instructions.  "Go into the shop and buy a bar of Swiss Chocolate".  She made sure that they knew that it had to be Swiss.
     They did as they were told and returned with the chocolate.  She stood me up again and this time held the bar of chocolate in front of me.  I leaned forward to try to reach the bar of chocolate and my skis started to slide.  Though I have no memory of this event, apparently after that first slide down the bunny hill, the chocolate was no longer necessary.  
 

 

I learned by watching. Being two years old and all made It so my family couldn't just leave me at the lodge while they skied which meant that I had to ride around all day in a child backpack. My dad skied the whole mountain with me on his back and to him It seemed like I was asleep or at least not learning, but I was. In the beginning he would be teaching my brother while I was on his back and I learned at the same time, watching but not allowed to try yet. As I gained all of this knowledge nobody actually knew that I understood how to ski until that day when my dad finally put me on skis. When we got to the top of the bunny-hill my dad got distracted and started fixing up his jacket and when he looked back I was gone. Searching frantically, he spotted me already halfway down the hill. When he caught up with me he asked "how on earth did you learn to ski?” My response of course was "I have been riding on your back for so long I just learned, Dad". And so began my lifelong obsession with skiing. It became even greater of an obsession when I got my first face-shots on a powder day or when I landed my first 360. But my real craze for skiing that really changed everything was when I saw Warren Millers: Journey for the first time. On that day I said to myself that I want to be just like those people. Being from Crystal Mountain Washington I have a lot of respect to the history of skiing which is the main reason that compels me to write this and add a bit of my own history to the story. As the world of skiing changes before our eyes I’m glad I have memories of the time when it wasn’t as rapid, memories of me in the backpack.

Skiing essay

The 1st day. Wow. it was so long ago. I can't believe it! The 1st day I was put on skis was when I was 1. 13 years ago! My parents made that decision. And I am so glad they did.

It was at Stevens pass. I was in my little one piece outfit. Wearing my white 1 buckle boots. The boots were up to my knees or so, so I couldn't flex entirely well. My Dad took me and then snapped me into my little Jr. Rossignol skis. I scooted slowly, but surely down the barely sloped snow surface.

I remember each learning moment vividly. The conditions were fair. Not a whole lot of new snow but enough snow to learn how to ski in. and I definitely learned how. I took the 1st step into skiing that day and I look back in triumph and excitement.

After that 1st day at Stevens, we started going to the Summit at Snoqualmie. I had some other learning experiences at Mount Baker and Big White (in B.C.), but for the most part I learned at the Summit at Snoqualmie. I remember skiing down that bunny run next to my Dad and when I would shift my weight back or forward, Dad would stick his Scott 49 to 50 inch pole right in front of my face. I would snatch that pole right out of the air and hang on like there was no tomorrow! Then we would make it down to the bottom. We would get in the lift line, and I would smile triumphantly. Then we would get to the top and do it all over again.

Now that 13 years have passed and I am still skiing strong, I credit my Dad. He has been my greatest inspiration, not in just skiing, but in everything! Sure the guys in the movies are great encouragement to us all, but pops is the best! Skiing is a big deal in my life. Everyone on my Dad's side of the family either is still skiing or has skied in the past. His parents, his 3 brothers (including the 5 sons and daughters), his aunt/uncle, just about everyone all ski or has skied. And we will continue to do so.

A little kicker me and my friends built back in December 2008. Location: Cle Elum, WA.

Me doing a 180. December 2008. I've progressed much since then.

Map of one of my Home Ski Areas.

Map of Stevens Pass. Where I was first put on skis!

Thanks for reading.

 

Human nature is to gravitate to an experience or feeling which gives great pleasure. This pleasure in the simplest terms, is almost always felt while riding those two sticks on top of the magical substance of snow. As I sit at my computer writing this essay about my first time on skis, the sheer number of memories invading my brain is unimaginable. When I think about skiing, it is like a figurative heaven of comforting feelings and cold, yet so warm days.

My first day on skis is without a doubt a highlight of my life. Butternut, Massachusetts, February 1996. A small bump just off of the bunny hill. Learning "french fries" while taking the rope tow, and the beloved pizza wedge. From 10 AM that morning, to closing time, I persistently committed myself to nailing the learning hill. Considering my competitive personality, I accomplished my goal. I'm not sure how to correctly describe is the only accurate phrase that is appropriate when talking about skiing. The beautiful feeling of cold air whipping across your face, most likely not feeling your extremities, but regardless of the slight physical ailments the craving for success takes precedent.

I don't think anyone could ever forget their first experience of skiing, for anyone who understands the true beauty of it will remember forever.

Early days of skiing – An essay by Mason Goodchild



The days of my skiing go back far before I can recall anything. It’s not what made me continue skiing though. My parents have had the biggest impact on me, next to the mountain. I grew up in the small tourist town of Lake Louise, Alberta. Many know this town for its stunning beauty, “The Gem of the Rockies”. I know it for that one place where I learnt my passion.

As quickly as I could walk, I was taught to ski. This must have been when I was 2 or 3, you still see parents doing it now. My first time on skis was between my parents legs. It’s just what I know, I can’t remember it, I just know. As cliché as it sounds, the family passion has always been skiing. Lake Louise can do that to you. With my mom working at the ski hill, they were able to get free season passes. One memory I have is being dropped off that the ski hill day care, and being put into ski school, any and every day my parents had to work. The mountain culture was always surrounding me.

My first days on skis, it is just too long ago for me to remember. I have memories of ski school, going up and down the platter each run, learning the pizzas and the French fries. I lived for it; I lived for that moment to get out of the apple juice stank of a day care and get into the open air.

There’s a moment in every one’s life where they know what they want to do, that moment where they just want to keep doing it until they die. As I sit here, 19 years old now, with the passion of big mountain skiing running through my veins, I remember shredding my first big mountain line and looking now where it has gotten me. It was a snowy winter, I must have been 6, and I’d always follow my dad, where ever he went skiing with me. He felt I was ready for this, I was more than excited to finally ski something that was roped off do to the terrain technicality. The run was ER7, a black diamond run located on the backside of Lake Louise. We called it ER7 fence line. I would duck under the fence, and I remember skiing the steeps, skiing the different snow, the off-piste. My first taste of it had me wanting more. My dad would limit it to me to the times I could hit it due to the conditions. I wouldn’t have any of it. I was mad. I wanted more. I got more.

I grew up on the backside of Louise, by the time I was 7 I was going up the Summit Platter. The first time I touched ground on skis isn’t much. The first time I touched ground on a big mountain line is.






499 words bitches!

My First Skiing Experience

Just after my fourth birthday, my family and I moved from Rabat, Morocco, to Geneva, Switzerland. As a four year old, I knew nothing of this strange new land other than the well known attributes of it being the land of chocolate and cheese. Upon arrival in Switzerland, my parents were left to discover the lay of the land with almost no aid. My mother worked for the US embassy in Geneva, and did get some insight into how things worked from her coworkers. As you can imagine, moving from a developing nation in Africa to one of the wealthiest nations in the world was a definite culture shock.

Everyone at the US embassy recommended that we go to Garmisch-Partenkirchen for first time skiing - there was a US army base there that had lodges and English speaking instructors. Driving up through Switzerland and eventually through Germany, i distinctly remember the change in architecture that is very apparent and sudden when driving through these area. Things became much more 'Swiss' - wooden Chalet-like houses became abundant, and Swiss German billboards featured Swiss people in typical lederhosen-like garments.

When we arrived at the base, I truly felt like I was entering a little part of America again. Food establishments like Burger King and Pop'Eyes came into view. Unfortunately, this wasn't the ideal situation my parents were looking for. The base was far from Swiss; embracing everything American, and providing a very American way of experiencing skiing. Anyone who has skied both in Europe and the USA will know that these are two very different ways of doing things. Once we had settled into the 'General Patton Lodge', my parents directed my excited brother and I over to the renting station. Once we had been sorted out by the incredibly friendly staff, my parents decided we might as well throw our things on and go up and down the bunny slope a few times before our classes started tomorrow morning.

My parents experience with skiing was entirely made up of my father's two or three trips to Wintergreen, VA with college friends during the '70s. I remember putting on my skis, and feeling a sensation of slippery freedom that I had never felt before. Going up the rope tow between my father's legs was also an adrenaline filled experience; much like going up the steep incline of a roller coaster, knowing that there is going to be drop. About halfway up, I remember thinking 'its too late to turn around now', and the feelings of fear and excitement bottled up inside me the entire way up. Keep in mind, this was only about a 150 rope tow, but it felt like I was climbing Everest.

At the top, I remember constantly bracing myself for a fall; but my dad kept me somewhat in control between his legs the entire way down. I remember that first feeling of acceptance, the 'i did it' moment, like learning how to ride a bike, and from that point on I was hooked on skiing.

It wasn't just the skiing that I fell in love with; it was also the feeling of being up there in the mountains, the people, the views, the air, and the snow. To this day, I not only anticipate a weekend skiing with my friends for the amazing sensation of floating on fresh powder, but also for the train rides up the mountain, the feeling of sitting down on a couch after a day of riding, talking about the best run of the day, or even better - planning tomorrow's.

It’s unfortunate sometimes what life can do to one’s inner child.  Pursuing a career, had for some fourteen years captured every last bit of my passion. The thrill of success mysteriously convincing my adrenal glands they were satiated.  Work days blurring into moonlighting while the depression layered on deep. Then three incredibly inspiring seasons ago I found myself standing at the top of Winter Park, my Raichle Flexon’s clicked into curvaceous skis a good 6 cm wider and at least 30 cm shorter than the unused relics in my basement.  

Instantly I was transported back nearly 30 years, standing there an early grade schooler, anxiously wondering, how this would feel, was I able, how do I turn, what if I fall.  I looked around and watched experts rolling over the backside, disappearing into the trees camouflaged by their rooster tails throwing love into the air along with their joyful hollers.  I didn’t yet know how it would be, but I knew for certain that I wanted that to be me.  

So I pushed off and started gliding, the air reminding me I was alive as I cut through wind and the deep memory blockages which had hijacked my lifestyle.  I was a child again, my dad skiing alongside, endearingly managing my efforts to stay upright.  “Tips together, knees bent, make a wedge, make a wedge, slow it down, CAREFUL, CAREFUL”  Everything else melted away and it was just me and the child I had abandoned so many years ago.  We were blissfully happy, there in that moment of clarity, made possible by the freedom afforded by skis and snow.  

The contour of the corduroy transcended space and time to connect a mountain in Colorado with a hill in Illinois. The tracks of my first descent recorded in it’s meter.  I stopped and looked back to see this evidence of my success, the shape of the turns beautiful perhaps to only me, and I was convinced that not only was I able to do this, but that I wanted to do this every day.  As both a 30 something and a barely something, I had fallen deeply in love with a sport on my first time out.  Despite the thousands of vertical feet I had logged up to my graduation from high school, that day was truly my first day skiing if only because more than a decade later I wasn’t the same person.  Until that day of course, where I re connected with the genuine me.   

Then late last season, reborn with a new record, thousands of vertical feet long, I once again defeated the space time continuum.  Skiing backwards in front of my daughter on that same corduroy profile, only this time it was my voice. “Tips together, knees bent, make a wedge, make a wedge, slow it down, CAREFUL, CAREFUL”  The cautious smile on her face telling me everything I already knew about the life changing possibilities of a first day of skiing.

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica}span.s1 {letter-spacing: 0.0px}span.Apple-tab-span {white-space:pre}

I started writing this and things went slightly off topic in an interesting (questionable) way. I know I definitely won't win with this entry but this is how I feel so so I figured to hell with it, I'll submit this anyways.

I could write about my actual first day when I was four years old at Robert Redford’s aptly named Sundance Ski Resort. My small tender body being dragged uphill by the rope tow until I was promoted that very afternoon to riding the lift due to my boundless enthusiasm for snow and speed.

I could also write about my first pair of season rental skis, my first season pass, or my first powder day. Ultimately all those days are in the past. A snap shot of a time and place that no longer exist. Everyday on the mountain is entirely different from the day before particularly in ways that are minute and hard to discern. Everyday on the mountain is ultimately a first day in some form. First day of the season, first powder day of the season, first time you’ve ever gotten first chair, first time you summited that peak, first day you realized you wanted to ski for the rest of your life, first day you realized you would ski for the rest of your life at any cost, first day you cut school or called in sick to work to ski, etc.

And while ultimately I could tell you in great detail about riding the frontside lift at Sundance on a foggy winter’s day in 1996, I have no interest in doing so because it isn’t a terribly interesting story. I could also tell you about the first time a had a serious crash but that story is a touch painful to remember. I might be inclined to tell you about the day that I skied my first black diamond run and how my instructor tricked me into it by telling me it was a blue square run but that is only part of the journey. I could tell you about the time I helped monitor Slalom gates for the Dean Guinn Legacy Race, my first pair of skis, or the first time I got to ski the mountain alone. I could even explain how that season was the catalyst that set me on the skin track to the summit of addiction. I could tell you about first tracks and first chairs. I could tell you about the first time I watched a ski movie that changed my life (I’m sorry Mr. Miller, it was Nimbus Independent’s film Hunting Yeti). I could tell you about trying to teach friends to ski and skiing with professionals. No single day of skiing offers the entire picture. Unfortunately, five hundred words is not a large enough canvas to paint a landscape of fourteen years of skiing filled triumphs and failures.

I could tell you about my first day on skis if I had had it yet, but Alta doesn’t open for a few more weeks.

My first day skiing was like my first day on earth. I was kicking and screaming. I hated it. Like sex though, skiing got better with time, and now I am what you might called hooked. I just cant get enough of it.

I finally received my chance to go skiing when I was seven and I had first moved to Utah. I had been waiting for years to be like my older brother and shred some gnarly powder. I had seen multiple pictures of my brother getting face shots and I knew I wanted to be just like that. It was a long time before I would ever get to that level of skiing though.
I spent the hour car ride up to my local mountain throwing up from car sickness, but nothing would bring my level of happiness down. I remember stepping out of the truck into a beautiful world of fresh snow. I breathed in and felt the cold air fill my lungs. As we walked to the rental shop, everything just seemed wonderful. The smell of coffee being made, the food being cooked, it was all so enticing, even the smell of exhaust from cars smelt wonderful.
I waited in line and received a pair of ski’s that were too tall, and boots there were too small, but I just said I would make them work, I didn’t want to wait in line any longer to trade out for proper fitting equipment. I waddled in my ski boots down to where I was supposed to meet the ski instructor. Anxiously, I waited for him, impatiently pacing so he could show me how to tear it up on the mountain.
Finally, a instructor appeared, I was ready to begin my quest. The beginning of the trip had been fantastic; I thought the rest of the trip would be fantastic too. It was quite the contrary though, the rest of the day sucked balls. I couldn’t go straight down the mountain, I couldn’t turn, all I could seem to do was cross my tips and fall. The tow rope was an impossible venture; I had to sit in someone’s lap just to go down from the top of the bunny slopes to the bottom, falling all the way. Eventually, my lesson ended and I just wanted to leave, skiing had been the worst experience of my life, I had fallen enough for me to have a life time of bruises. Had it not been for my brother, I would have quit right there.
As I was sitting in the lodge, giving up on life, my older brother walked in and looked at me and laughed. He simply told me to pick myself up and try again. Had it not been for that moment, I would have never skied again. My brother then proceeded to teach me how to stand up and how to use a tow rope by myself. He basically destroyed the rest of my future by teaching me how to ski. He started my obsession with always skiing harder and going bigger then I had last time, he showed me what my true passion was.

By Ben W.

500 words (on the dot!)

My parents were always acutely aware of my insatiable thirst for movement and activity. What gave it away? Perhaps it was my nature as a 'why?' kid rather than a 'mine' kid; perhaps it was the scaling of every wall and door frame like a fully clawed cat, or the trampolining with a hockey stick in hand, or the swaying in the wind from the highest limb of our front yard's tallest tree.

As a toddler, I was a nightmare for the folks (my mother in particular who's in charge of insurance and risk management at Durham College) and it was clear that something had to be done with me.

Winters were the worst and when I hit seven, my parents were at their wits end; Ontario's hobo-killing-cold was bad enough to keep my soft bones and sensitive skin in the house, and my developing appetite for adrenaline became loud as a siren. It needed an outlet and they needed to keep their sanity; what new-age hypnotism or whirling mobile will keep it occupied? The parents wondered.

I don't know when they settled on skiing, but it must have been long after I went to bed. Who knows if I would have agreed? Ontario is cold as hell.

One weekend before the snow flew, we took the highway outside my house to the off-ramp that General Motors’ line workers take to the plant. But instead of following them inward toward the slaughter, we stopped at a huge warehouse where thousands of other people convened in a swaying line-up of: frazzled parents and hopelessly hyper, overly ambitious kids. This was Oshawa's ski swap and it took four hours to get in and out with ski necessaries for only fifteen dollars. Certainly, it came from an auctioned home’s dilapidated attic but nevertheless: I had my first setup: skis, poles, bindings and a peach pair of women's rear entry boots.

That winter, we drove through gates you'd find cows corralled behind. And rolling past the Oshawa Ski Club's infamous 'Farmer's Field' run near the East Chalet, I commenced with my first day of snow sliding. It was cold as a Robert Munch story and I was sad. Truthfully all I can remember about the experience is the shocking pain of overcoming numb toes in the chalet; the very specific feeling of: lightning bolts that strike when one's blood returns to once-frozen things - it traumatized my tiny system.

I whined and I cried when lunch rolled around; I told my folks that I'd never ski again and I'd do whatever it took to re-pay them for the lessons, their time and my new -old setup; nothing could be worse than this. I didn’t report on the pleasures and pitfalls of my snowplough or crusty pizza and instead logged complaint after complaint.

Now, I'm twenty-five. I've lived in Whistler for three years and ski 100+. Obviously, my parents never let me forget that first day skiing; they just love to say “I told you so.”

---

Thanks for the read,

Ben

StartFragment

My first day ever on skis involvedsnow boots, plastic Rossignol skis, and “big kids”. According to my parents, Ilearned to walk in October of 1994, one month before my second birthday. Thatyear in Sun Valley, Idaho was a particularly snowy one, with snow falling enoughto cover the beginners’ ski hill, Rotarun, early. I had just turned two, and myparents thought it was time for me to strap on my Rossi’s for the first time.They suited me up in my snow clothes and drove me to the hill.

After strapping my skis on to mysnow boots, my Dad walked me about twenty feet up the hill. My Mom was waitingfor me at the bottom. The idea was that my Dad would let me go, I would slidedown, and my Mom would catch me at the bottom. The plan went perfectly. Afterabout five runs, I was tired and wanted hot chocolate.

As I drank my hot chocolate Ilooked outside to find out that a race was happening. It was the Kinder Cup, aski race for kids age four to seven. I watched these “big kids” race throughthe gates. I watched and watched as they took the T-Bar up the hill and racedback down it. After about a half hour, I had had enough. I wanted to ski likethese kids. I had my parents help suit me back up, and I walked back outside.

With some difficulty, I waddled upto the T-Bar and grabbed on, what a rush. I stiffened up for the entire rideand didn’t move until I was told to let go. I didn’t know what to do after that,so I watched what the other kids were doing and tried to blend in with them. Weskied ten feet to the starting gate; I looked down, and realized what I hadgotten myself into. Instead of my usual twenty-foot runs, I had suddenlygraduated to at least a one hundred-foot run. I had no choice but to go.

Using what I learned thirty minutesbefore, I turned down the hill, my skis began to glide, and suddenly I wasracing. I had no idea how to turn, so I skied straight down the hill. Thetwenty-second run was the first adrenaline rush that I have ever had, and Iloved it. I arrived safely at the bottom with help from my parents. I had donewhat I set out to do: ski like the big kids. In the midst of my snow-inducedeuphoria, I unstrapped my skis and walked towards the lodge, opened the door,walked to the race registration desk, and uttered out five words: “I need anumber now”. Because of my age, I was denied. But that hadn’t changed thefeeling that I could ski with a four year old if I wanted to. I felt like achampion, smiling the entire way back home.

EndFragment

Haha yes.

StartFragment

499 Words About My Skiing Origins

-Joel Prentice

After mentally digging through a catalogue of ski-related memories, not only have I pinpointed my first day on skis, but I've also managed to recall that very first run.



As a young’un, I accompanied my father to a rather diminutive ski centre named Dacre Heights. Located in the context of your typical Canadian shield landscape, Dacre was established on a geological feature that remained from Wisconsinan-era glaciation. I'm assuming we chose to ski Dacre based on it's proximity to my father's hometown of Renfrew, Ontario. I'm also guessing that the day of skiing was a component of a family visit, but I digress.



Upon unloading from my inaugural chair lift ride, I vividly recall Dad hoisting what was likely my cold, limp toddler self off the chair, and carefully placing me out of harms way, ensuring I didn't become the next anonymous ski casualty to appear in a high-speed video montage of failed disembarkment attempts.



I then recall approaching the edge of the knoll at the top of my very first run on skis. I had advanced in front of Dad, and as far as I was concerned, a field of moguls on the left hand side of the run was all that separated my invincible 5-year old self from the bottom of the Madawaska Valley.



I remember the exhilaration of shifting my rental skis from pizza to french-fry, and accelerating downhill towards moguls that I perceived to be similar in size to myself. Interestingly, I recall feeling the social pressure that comes along with skiing under the watchful eyes of the peanut gallery on the chair lift. And I can still picture myself skiing through a handful of moguls, losing my balance, and collapsing sideways in a heap.



Perhaps most importantly, I recall my father being right there to extract me from the mogul field. He placed me safely on the adjacent corduroy, offered words of encouragement, and sent me off to the valley bottom.



I have little connection to that day anymore. My father has since passed away, and Dacre Heights has not been operational in many years. Perhaps that explains the difficulty in even recalling my first day on skis in the first place.



And yet in retrospect, I have come to realize that one arbitrary day spent skiing with Dad at Dacre in the early 1990’s has had a disproportionate effect in shaping my identity as an adult. I have transitioned from living in Ontario and skiing its miniscule glacial features, to skiing BC’s extensive glaciers and living at the foot of Vancouver’s north shore mountains.



And I still do have one connection to that day that I can think of. Simply put, it is the exhilaration derived from pointing my skis downhill. I felt it as a 5 year old; I felt it today. And although they say that things in life come and go, I can surely say that the feeling I get when I’m on snow will remain ingrained within me forever.

EndFragment

I am a 14 year old skier. I have been skiing for five years. My first time skiing was one of the most memorable times of my lifetime. I always wanted to learn to ski because my uncle and my dad did it as a kid and my father still skis. The first day I skied, I was very nervous because i had never even seen the mountain. when I finally got to Hidden Valley PA, I went straight the opening where the mountain was, as my parents and my little sister paid for the tickets. I got my ticket on my jacket and hit the slopes. as I got on the magic carpet for the bunny hill, I was nervous beyond beleif. I had never skied before so I had no clue as to what I was doing except for watching what the other skiers were doing as they raced by. I finally got to the top of what seem to me what seemed to be an entire mountain it's self. My dad  being the good skier that he is helped me along the way down and as i got the hang of it i began to get my knees under me and i started to carve my turns more and more. I was so excited to ski because as i went down i got very into it. i then told my parent i thought i was ready for the intermediate slopes. When i got on the chair lift i nearly fell off but recovered my self. It got higher and higher. when i got to the top i got off and slide under the chair lift and had to get up and wait for the other chair to go by and quickly get out. i got the edge of the slope and told my self i could do it and even thought i fell couple times i did it and then i got even better with each passing minute.

my threads...

when does it end?

@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }

Ski bum is an understatement. From skiing alone, I have had 14 knee surgeries, which I could list by year, type of injury, and how it occurred from memory, but I won’t bore you. I will instead give you the details about my upbringing in a ski industry. For starters, my grandmother just received her 35-year anniversary celebration from Vail Resorts, for ski instructing for nearly half a century. She will be 80 in June and still skis over 100 days a year. My mom, much like her mother, skied with me in her stomach until she was 7 months pregnant and lifties wouldn’t allow her on the lift. At 6 months old, my mother gave me ski boots for my first real shoes and had me in a backpack, still skiing around with the family. My first day on skis, I was 2 years old, and according to my grandmother I was an, “instant skier”. One day when I was four, still making (pepperoni) pizza turns, I remember looking back at my older brother and yelling to him, “I am faster than you!” That’s about all I remember, not because I was so young, but because the next instant after yelling at him I ran smack into the wooden corral at the bottom. Apparently, I cracked my goggles, dented my super stylish Styrofoam helmet (with my name on it!), and was out cold for 10 minutes. Once revived, my mother wiped up my bloody nose and put me on the lift again, much to the dismay of the other concerned skiers in line. Shaken by the collision, I cried for the entire ride up. In true toddler mood swings, I was grinning ear to ear again on the way down that next run, although I kept a weary eye on objects that 4 year olds could not budge.

This was all occurring at Suicide Six, Vermont, where we lived 1 mile down the road from the ski area, and had no electricity. We ran a maple sugaring business and did small scale farming with horses, cattle, chicken, and ducks. We walked to the ski area, but sometimes the neighbor would give us a ride on his tractor.

I grew up in that rural Vermont town, and when I was older, I followed in my mother’s footsteps, ski instructing from age 10 to age 16 under her supervision. She is still a famous and sought after ski instructor, just like my grandmother, teaching at Killington, Jay Peak, and Vail Resorts. Instead of ski instructing, I graduated high school at 16 and moved to Colorado. My mother told me to go to college, so I googled ‘ski colleges’ and Colorado Mountain College was the first thing that popped up. Five years later, I have a degree in Ski Area Operations (the only girl that graduated in my class of 30), and still live year round in Colorado. I have never bought a ski pass in my life, mostly because I have worked for a ski resort since I was 10 years old. I am currently the only girl to ever be on Breckenridge’s Terrain Park Crew, where I am the Lead over the crew of men.

My entire family is considered ski bums, and I am only proudly, and happily, following in their footsteps.

contest ends December 1st 2010.  Still have plenty of time to put together a quality entry.

Should have worked on a better ending..

when is this due?

december 1st

this is my account of my first time skiing. took some time to write about it and truthfully had a good time writing it!

The first time I went skiing I was 13 years old.  I ended up dropping one of my gloves off the chair lift because I was gazing at a few of my friends drop this cliff at Showdown(My home mountain).  My glove ended up landing on a black diamond ski run.   Out of the runs at most ski areas a green circle represents a beginner run.   A black diamond, on the other hand, represents an expert only run.  The friends I was with wanted to go into the lodge and eat.  So I told them I would meet them after I retrieved my glove.  I had been skiing for most of the day and felt like I was getting the hang of the whole skiing thing.  After about ten minutes I found the run the wretched glove had fallen on.  My jaw dropped and nearly hit my feet.  This run was super steep with rocks and trees everywhere.  I had been riding groomed runs all day and had no clue how to turn on a mogul (quick switchbacks that form on steep ski slopes).  I took a deep breath and made the terrible decision to push ahead and try the run.  I began the run sliding sideways down the steep slope, but I ended up hitting a group of rocks under the snow.  I then proceeded to tomahawk down the hill head to feet halfway down the run.  I got up a little disoriented and realized I had lost my hat and had ejected out of both my skis.  So here I sat in the middle of the hardest ski run at showdown without skis, a hat, or a glove.  I managed to get my skis but I never found my hat.  I walked to the bottom of the run in the waist deep snow and finally got my glove.  My hand at this time was a super numb and frostbit.  I despairingly clicked back into my skis and made my way to the lodge.  It had been two and a half hours since I had said I would meet my friends.  That was my first time I had ever gone skiing.   I don’t know whether it was the fact that I just loved skiing or the fact that I had just got a brutal beating by Mother Nature.  I have skied nearly every winter weekend since then and have loved every single minute of it. 

This Is Real Shreducation

I have been snowboarding since i was eight years old and i'm now nineteen. I always told myself that i wouldn't enjoy skiing and i enjoyed my single plank way too much. All my buddies and my parents tried convincing when i was growing up but to no avail. All i wanted todo was snowboard, after snowboarding at The Outback park at  Mount St. Louis Moonstone i was watching an amateur freestyle skiing competition and i absolutely fell in love. Guys were throwing tricks that snowboarders can only dream of doing. Last year my buddies, who are all freestyle skiers convinced me to get some ski gear and see what i can do. I got to ski at Ostler Bluff in Collingwood for my first time and it was incredible. I went straight to black diamonds thinking it was a piece of cake and i fell a few times but i ended picking it up really quick. By the end of the first day i was hitting rails and boxes. The next day, we were back at Ostler Bluff where i taught myself to 270 on and off on an 8 foot straight rail. Messed up a couple times but my fourth try i ended up pulling it out, it wasnt the cleanest but i did it. Since then, all i want todo is ski and get better and i've really been training in the offseason, going to alot of trampoline places to get really solid at backflips and hopefully by the end of this winter ill be able to back 180 at least!

Whoever wins, I'm sure it will be a fun read.

It won't let me tab the first paragraph over btw

Try not to laugh too hard at mine:

It is hard to say this, but I was actually that kid whose dad has to hold him in between his legs, and my dad was never very good.  I was 3-years-old so I don,t know much, but it was at Hunter Mountain in New York.  More importantly I know that if I had never gone, my life would be completely different. 

            I would like to tell you that my first time was perfect, but it wasn’t.  I hear the story every winter so I know that at age three I hated my first run, I couldn’t stop.  Unfortunately my mom had told my dad that it would be just like learning to ride a bike. My dad doesn’t understand the concept of “sarcasm”.  He let me go after a few turns and I flew straight into a tree and broke some bone in my wrist. 

            Alright, cast off; time to get back on the mountain.  We were back in the parking lot and once I had stopped whining, my dad forced the boots on and brought out the skis.  We walked to the lift ticket line, where we ran into my dad’s friend Darien.  He gave me some tips and soon I was learning faster than Darien’s son.  I can’t imagine my life if my dad hadn’t forced me onto that mountain, I’m glad that it happened or else I wouldn’t be out having so much fun every winter doing the greatest sport ever.

            Several years later, I was living in Maryland, the worst place for a skier to live ever.  My entertainment was getting my friends to try skiing.  Most of them can’t get half way down the ten-foot hill in front of my house.  Then one day, I took my snowboarder friend to a small local mountain named Liberty Mountain where we decided to switch for the night.  So he took my gear, and nearly an hour to get the boots on.  Once we got on the lift, we were telling each other how to get off the lift.  I can honestly say that I had it down before I was even off the lift, he fell instantly.  It took 10 minutes with two people, and the lift turned off to get him up.  As we made our way over to the hill, getting past the jokes was harder than it probably should have been.  We decided to just go down and see who could get to the bottom first.  You can guess I won, but he didn’t fall and I was only waiting for maybe three minutes.  He said that it was maybe the most thrilling experience of his life and I haven’t been able to keep the skis off of him since.

I can’t wait till the day when I get to teach my son how to ski.  I just hope that by then I’m a much better teacher than now.  One thing is for sure that I will never take my dad’s techniques.

499 words. 

@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }

My First Day on Skis

My first day on skis

In Steamboat Springs

Nothing but two years old

Dressed up in my one piece feeling kind of cold

The ceiling was gray

It was a terrible day

But that didn’t matter at all

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

Legs all wobbly

I was carried up the hill

By my parents who thought I needed this skill

Set down on my tiny red boots

I couldn’t give a hoot

I just was happy about the bus ride here

One parent a foot in front of me and another behind

My first run only lasted a second

But that didn’t mater at all

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

No poles No gloves, no skill

All I had was just the will

And so I slid down six vertical inches of hard pack snow

Feeling as if I had conquered the world

My brother in a backpack

Only one year young

Watched me take my first ever run

That run was not to be the last

Because I wanted to go fast

I couldn’t that day

But that didn’t matter at all

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

I wish I could say that my first day skiing

Was a three-foot dump of powder

Or that I came out of my mother with skis on

But it was a normal cloudy day

Nothing that was out of the way

I wish I could say there was magic in the air

Or that I really took a care

But the truth is that

When I fell on my dome

I was more excited for the bus ride home

But when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere else to go

But down

My First Day on Skis

 

My first day on skis

In Steamboat Springs

Nothing but two years old

Dressed up in my one piece feeling kind of cold

The ceiling was gray

It was a terrible day

But that didn’t matter at all

 

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

 

Legs all wobbly

I was carried up the hill

By my parents who thought I needed this skill

Set down on my tiny red boots

I couldn’t give a hoot

I just was happy about the bus ride here

One parent a foot in front of me and another behind

My first run only lasted a second

But that didn’t mater at all

 

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

 

No poles No gloves, no skill

All I had was just the will

And so I slid down six vertical inches of hard pack snow

Feeling as if I had conquered the world

My brother in a backpack

Only one year young

Watched me take my first ever run

That run was not to be the last

Because I wanted to go fast

I couldn’t that day

But that didn’t matter at all

 

Because when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere to go

But down

 

I wish I could say that my first day skiing

Was a three-foot dump of powder

Or that I came out of my mother with skis on

But it was a normal cloudy day

Nothing that was out of the way

I wish I could say there was magic in the air

Or that I really took a care

But the truth is that

When I fell on my dome

I was more excited for the bus ride home

 

But when you are skiing

And your skis are on snow

You feel like a bird with nowhere else to go

But down

I hope everyone agrees that you cannot put a limit on memories, as this memory does exceed the limit.

But guess what also...skiing has no limit!

enjoy.

When I think back to my first time stepping intoback entry boots, clipped into an old pair rossy skis (so old it had thatwhite, red and blue rooster in the tips), it takes me back to my hometown of100 Mile House, in beautiful British Columbia. As most people experienced theirfirst time skiing on some sort of bunny hill or T-Bar, with gently sloped hillsor freshly groomed corduroy, I was a couple sessions deep into skiingbefore those chances came along. 100 Mile House is a pretty dry and cold placeduring these brilliant winters. This climate broughtwhite Christmas' and snow till March for the whole 10 years I was grew upthere. So you can imagine that, on a regular basis, we would get some epicsnowfalls combined with temperatures of -27 degrees Celsius. Thenearest mountain from 100 Mile is MT. Timothy, which when I skied there,consisted of one Rope-tow, a T-Bar, and an old log lodge that makes killerpoutine. Although this perfect field of learning was only about 45 minutesNorth of 100 Mile, my first time ever doing the old pizza-french fry was about20 feet from my front door.

Imagine an old, classic Cariboo log house on top of a hill, with about 2 acres of landfor me and my siblings to explore and romp around in. This was my temple forplay, love, and happiness. There would be warm, cozy nights of sitting besideour wood burning fireplace sipping hot chocolate from rigid pottery mugs, andthen nights of putting bowls underneath spots on the roof where the rain wasleaking in. Those 10 years that house gave me the foundation of who I am today,and my spirit and compassion for skiing came right from my own driveway.Provided that my house was situated on top of a decently size hill, ourdriveway had one of those fancy circular driveways that you see in pictures ofmansions and exquisite homes, perfectly paved with a butler and a Bentley waitingfor you. Mine was steep, uneven, and loose dirt. So, in 1996, when I was 3years old, winter was brought upon BC, and half the world I suppose... Myparents decided that it was about time I strapped on the old planks and littleboots. Walking outside from the invitingwarmth of inside to the bitter cold outside was a bit unsettling for this weelad, all big and puffy with a jacket, snow pants and a toque, while lookingdown at the bottom of the driveway being clumsy with these awkward skis andjust wanting to go inside from this intimidating, make shift ski hill. My momand I waited at the top of the drive and waited for my dad to get to the bottomto catch me when I come flying (or rolling, sliding, tumbling, rag-dolling etc)down to the bottom so he can catch me. God Forbid if I shot thought his legsand flew across the street and into the ravine... So as he reached the bottom,my time of purpose time and whether I knew it or not (I probably didn’t), thiswould be my first time ever experiencing this natural dopamine inducing rushcalled skiing. Some encouraging words, a little push, and I was off. Now, if Ihad any thought of just bailing off into the side, I’m glad I didn’t. To myright was the long, log fence still covered in bark and knobs for who knows howlong, that cove red the length of the entire driveway, and on my left was thesnow bank that probably went over my head. My only option was straight down tomy hollering dad encouraging me with arms spread at the bottom. After that, Idon’t remember much. I know I survived as I am here writing about myexperience.

Everytime I clip into my bindings, and glide through fresh dusty powder, or carve uprigid corduroy, I know that I am experiencing the same rush I felt when I was 3years, old awkwardly skiing down the driveway. This rush of emotion and adrenaline isn’tnecessarily different depending on the variables that you’re skiing, it is justexperienced from different angles and shone through the diamond of theindividual refracting different light. For me, skiing will always exist withinme as a beautiful and ideal energy that gets me addicted every time I blastthrough that pillow, and it will make me keep coming back for more until mylast pole is planted.

enjoy!


Pizza? French-fries? Pizza bad, French-fries good. Is all I could think about. No i wasn’t at your local fast food joint, i was learning to ski. Now most people who have taken a ski lesson know what i am talking about but for those of you who don’t its like this. picture your skis in the shape of a pizza, pointed like a triangle, your not going anywhere fast. now picture french-fries, long and straight, pointed down the hill ready to rip. now were talking. this is what i was taught my first time on skis.
What i learned quickly was that i like to go fast and i like freedom. this is what skiing provided me. as a little kid, your life is controlled from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep. skiing gave me my first taste of freedom. only the funny thing is 18 years later and with all the independence i want, skiing still provides a sense of freedom which cannot be found anywhere else.
As skiers we are a different breed of people. while most people flock to hot destinations with unlimited food, drinks and sunshine for their vacations. we will sleep in our cars and eat noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. just for that untouched pillow line on a bluebird day. now thats a vacation. we long for those cold winter days, sub zero temperatures and snow so high we can’t open our front doors in the mourning.
Before all the contracts, sponsorships, contests and film segments. whether your young or old, double black or green, every time I clip into my bindings I feel that sense of freedom, as if it were my first time on skis.