The Summit.

This past weekend my friends and I rented a ski house in New Hampshire. As a kid, I never learned to ski. I tried it once when I was 15 on a family trip out in Colorado. At 18, my college organized a day trip to Killington, VT and my roommate convinced me to come along. A former member of her high school ski team, she promised she’d spend the day with me, teaching me the ropes. Instead, we took one run on the bunny hill together, I crashed into some poor innocent bystander, and she said I was ready for the gondola.

This was an idiotic idea. Unfortunately, I didn’t even know enough to tell her just how terrible of an idea it truly was.

When we got to the top of the mountain, I was told I’d have to do black diamond or blue trails for a bit until we could get back to the green (easiest) level. My roommate took off, bounding down the mountain at warp speed and I was left, panicked and alone, trying to make a snow plow.

Thankfully another guy from my dorm took pity on me and talked me down that mountain. He stayed with me through every single fall (there were a lot of them) and shouted words of encouragement as I crept down that mountain inch by inch. Without him I’m sure I would have taken my skis off and walked down the mountain alone, never to return. (12 years later I am still grateful for his help.)

Years passed after that scarring Vermont day trip. Friends would chat about ski weekends and the fun they’d had, I’d smile politely and nod, intent on never feeling as scared as I did that afternoon at the summit. Finally, during my senior year in college one of my best friends convinced me to get back on skis when we spent a long weekend in Lake Placid, NY. There was no gondola or black diamond trails this time around but I still fell. A lot. It frustrated me that I couldn’t keep up with anyone on the trails, yet I felt terrible about holding them back while they tried to slow down and wait for me.

More years passed.

Friends kept planning ski trips, I kept declining the invitations.

When I was 23, I decided I’d had enough. I was tired of feeling left out of the sport, I wanted to learn something that would help me embrace the long New England winters rather than shun them. Instead of letting the fear of those first few ski trips run rampant in my brain I decided I would face them head on. Conquering the mountain suddenly took on a very literal sense.

So, I signed up for adult ski lessons. I drove myself out to a mountain near Boston every Sunday for two months and took an hour long night lesson on my own. I fell a lot. I fell getting on the chair lift, I fell getting off the chair lift. I fell making the snow plow. I fell going down the bunny hill. I fell just standing in line, waiting for the instructor. I kept falling.

I also kept getting up.

I started saying yes to ski weekends. Often, I skied alone on those trips, happy to just do my own thing and not feel I was holding anyone else back. I made my way down the green trails, continued to learn on my own and then met up with friends for the après ski. I still fell plenty, but the falls came a little less frequently and they were slightly less chaotic. I got a bit better at controlling my speed and anticipating when a tricky spot might arise. My confidence grew.

I’m still not a very good skier. I always prefer the green trails to the blue, I get nervous when trails merge and I find myself suddenly surrounded by snowboarders and skiers. I don’t like people waiting for me at the bottom of the run; I don’t enjoy feeling out of control and almost always go slower than I need to on the mountain. Still, I go. I keep going. I head to the summit. And I’m starting to love it.

This most recent trip?

I didn’t fall once.