I grew up skiing. As in, we lived in the mountains and skied every weekend of winter, kind of thing.
At one point, early in our relationship, my husband looked at me, semi-astonished: “I think you’re better on skis than feet.” So it was reaaaally important to me that, first, my then fiancé (now husband) and I could share this amazing sport together, and second, that when my kids were old enough, they too would know the awkward joys of being thrown off a J-bar.
But before we could cruise the groomers as a family, we had to get through many painful winters learning to ski.
I thought I could teach my husband. The problem was that what comes naturally to someone who’s been doing it all her life is really hard to put into words for someone who, well, grew up in urban Chicago.
I tried teaching my husband
But we tried! We rented skis and hit the bunny hills, specifically at a small Midwest ski resort called “Alpine Valley.” What could go wrong?
My husband is athletic and approached skiing with the confidence of someone who is good at every sport he tries. Until he skied. As we crested the ridge of the first hill, it all happened in a millisecond.
Unable to put my weak “pizza pie!” lessons into action, he immediately spun wildly out of control, barreling straight down the mountain, one ski and one pole in the air, screaming “stop, stop, stop!” until he eventually did, hitting a fluorescent orange snowmaking turbine with such force that it slowly whirred to life. By the time I got to him, he was already throwing his skis over his shoulders and walking. “You know how you don’t play basketball?” He screamed at me. “Maybe I just don’t ski!”
Not the best start to our alpine life together.
We hired a ski instructor
We needed a few no-ski winters after that one. But eventually, we tried again, this time with calculated professional intervention. We headed to our home mountain (Sunapee) and enlisted the help of a calm, 65-year-old pro with lovely, encouraging-grandpa vibes. As the pair clomped into the lodge at the end of a long Saturday, they were both beaming. “He can ski!” said the instructor.
Kids, it turns out, are much harder (and more expensive) to offload. My strategy with them was to put in sheer hours on the hill. The only way out is through, kind of thing. Sacrificing gorgeous bluebird ski days and many, many hundreds of dollars’ worth of adult lift tickets to cold, crabby ingrates between my skis.
Eventually, they got the hang of it. And eventually, I got my ski-family wish.
That first cruiser we did as a full family — it was bliss. Big wedge turns, ear-to-ear smiles, singing at the top of their lungs. Truly, all is worth it. Now my husband skis as well as I do, and both kids leave us in the dust. But that’s the way of the world.
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