The ski lift that got the best of me...one and a half times.

Every once in awhile I get in a weird mood when I decide that I've spent enough time relaxing in my comfort zone and think to myself, 'it's time to do something that scares you/makes you uncomfortable.'  


My most recent comfort zone departure?...Skiing.  Yes, I, Becca B., went skiing for the first time in 20 (not rounded up...truly 20) years.  


Prior to last month I'd only been skiing once in my life...when I was 12.  I went with a friend who'd grown up skiing, but I had never been.  My mom always said it was too expensive, which it is, but secretly I also wonder if my parents are ski-wimps like me and just didn't want to have to take us.   


Anyway, I, as an innocent little 12 year-old went skiing with my friend Angie. She let me go down the Bunny Hill twice before she talked me into going up the mountain.  The plan was to get off at the first stop.  The plan failed.  The first stop came.  Angie got off.  I got scared that if I got off the lift I'd instantly start uncontrollably speeding down the mountain.  So, I stayed on.  Past the first stop, and the second, and then I saw the third, and final stop coming up.  In my 12 year old mind I imagined what would happen if I didn't get off this time...my chair would turn and head back down the mountain and inevitably at the bottom I'd be sucked into some big piece of machinery and would be chopped into dog-food sized pieces.  


And I didn't want to be chopped into dog-food sized pieces.  So at the very top, and last chance for life, I flung myself off the lift.  Yes, yes, imagine head and arms first, torso and legs and skis and poles following...and everything landing in one big heap.  But I was safe.  Yes, I, a completely inexperienced at skiing (and now friend/ski instructor-less) 12 year-old, was at the very top of the mountain by myself. But it was okay.  The big chair lift rotator machine would not soon be tearing me to pieces.  Disaster averted.  


So I did what any normal, inexperienced-at-skiing-but-somehow-on-the-top-of-the-mountain-by-herself, 12 year-old girl would do.  


I cried.  


And then I took my skis off, sat next to them, and slid on my behind down the mountain while trying to keep track of my skis and poles and doing my best to ignore the expletives coming from those who skied around me.  


As I recall, I spent the rest of the day in the ski lodge eating french fries and drinking hot chocolate.  I may have ventured out onto the Bunny Hill again, but I know that I did not get back onto that torturous chair lift.  


Angie never invited me to go skiing again...no surprise there.  But, we did remain friends...which was good.  I even went to her wedding, years later, when she married my 3rd grade ex-boyfriend.  


In the coming years I had opportunities to go skiing, but the emotional wounds from that first experience were still too fresh, so I never went.  And, by the time those wounds did heal, my teenage years were over and I guess I just got busy.  And although I lived in Utah for 8+ years, surrounded by fantastic ski resorts, with offers from friends to take me skiing, and even free skiing passes from a relative with connections at one of the resorts...I never did go.  By that time all I really did was school and work, and then work and travel, and then grad school and work again.  No time for scary new hobbies.  


But then came 2012.  A friend had connections for cheap passes at Kelly Canyon, the location of that fateful ski trip 20 years ago.  And I told myself, 'now or never Becca...time to face your fears...you are well on your way to getting old, brittle, and decrepit, so you'd better go skiing now, while you still can.'


And so I did.  


The only ski-appropriate winter coat I owned was a circa 1996 forest green and maroon Columbia brand coat...in near mint condition by the way.  But I decided that my mere presence on the ski slopes would be embarrassing enough for myself and my friends, and decided it was time to buy a new ski-coat.   

Thank heavens for the end-of-season sales at Macy's.  I got this coat for a steal of a deal.  I thought maybe I should leave the tags on the coat as sort of a "New Skier Warning" to those around me, but I figured my skiing techniques alone would warn the wise to stay away.  

When I was trying on coats, trying to decide which one would suit my new ski hobby best, my brother Tyler was there.  I put on one of the coats I was considering and made side to side skiing motions...like a pro would do, and said to Tyler, "which one of these coats looks the best on me when I'm skiing?"  To which Tyler replied, "I don't think it really matters...because you won't look like that when you ski...you'll look like this..."(and then he made the ski motions of someone freaking out and falling down).  And he was right.  It didn't really matter.  I wasn't going to look like the graceful ski-pro I saw in my head.

Here I am at the bottom of the mountain before I put the hat on that would make me hate the rest of my pictures.  And by the way, from this angle, the mountain looks less like the formidable torture chamber it was, and more like a hill...but it wasn't as mild as it looks, I promise.  

My friend Heidi...who was kind enough, patient enough, and dumb enough to agree to go skiing with me!  She really was the best person ever to go skiing with because she's been skiing since age 5ish...so she's really good, but three of her kids were with her so she couldn't be too fast or awesome.  So I just tagged along as her 4th kid.  

Heidi's 7 year-old daughter, Rylie, helped coach me along too.  We even did a few runs down the mountain by ourselves when Heidi was on the Bunny Hill with her younger daughter, Kenzley.  Rylie was so cute.  She'd say things like, "come on Becca, you can do it, you're doing so great, you haven't even fallen yet!"   And when we got to the bottom she said to Heidi, "Mom, Becca didn't even run into the trees this time!"  It was so funny to get cheered on by my little 7 year-old friend who is 25 years younger than I am, and who is much better at making it down the mountain in one piece.  

I ran into (fortunately not literally) one of my Beehives, Abby, who, thanks to my new coat, wasn't too embarrassed to do a couple of runs with me.  It was fun.  

So you're probably all wondering (if you're still reading this long post) how I did on this 20-years-later facing-my-fears ski extravaganza.  

Well, the first thing we did was head up that very chair lift that gave me so much angst 20 years ago.  But this time I was determined.  I would get off.  I would not let the chair lift get the best of me two times.  But when it came time to get off the lift, I once again saw what had given my little 12 year-old heart so much fear...a steep little hill that seemed to blend right into the mountain which, in my mind, seemed to lead me to believe that if I skied off the lift, I'd end up on an uncontrolled trip straight down the steepest part of the mountain, which would lead to certain death, or at least a broken leg.  And I don't have the greatest health insurance.  So I didn't want a broken leg.

So instead of gracefully skiing off the lift like my friends in front of me did, I, once again, flung myself from the lift and into a snowdrift on the side of the lift.  Head and arms leading, and everything else following.  I ended up in some sort of a convoluted pretzel situation...me, my limbs, my skis, and my poles.  As my "friends" Lorina and Heidi doubled over in laughter, I tried to untangle myself.  The guy from the little chair lift shack came over and offered help, but I said "no thanks."  Because first of all, I too, was laughing uncontrollably, and wasn't sure if I'd be able to get myself up (even with help)...and because I was just having one of those moments...where, even though help would probably be useful, you just want to deal with the situation yourself.  

Anyway, I got off that lift.  Not gracefully by any means, but I got off.  So I'm counting this one a tie.  The chair lift may have beat me that first time 20 years ago, but this time I didn't let it beat me all the way...just half of the way.  

The rest of the night we took a different chair lift up.  One that was way less intimidating to exit from.  And I didn't fall again...at least not when getting off the lift.  I guess that lift we'd happened to go up when I first skied as a 12 year-old was one of the steepest to exit.  I found the other lift much less scary.  What a tragedy though...if I'd only taken an easier lift 20 years ago, I probably would have loved skiing, and probably would have ended up as an Olympic skier...and then I wouldn't be in the middle of a major career crisis.  But I guess I shouldn't say "if only..." 

Anyway, we went down the mountain lots more times.  I really like skiing.  I guess the worst part really is getting off that one chair lift at Kellys (which I am determined to someday master).  

I did fall a lot...

and spent quite a bit of time like this (this is actually after I untwisted myself from another pretzel situation) while Heidi laughed uncontrollably.  

and came home with more than my fair share of bruises...like this ugly one covering the whole side of my leg.  (I kinda can't believe I'm showing this ugly leg picture on my blog but then I guess I've shown my morning hair, so there's really nothing to hide now).  

And I hurt.  And I could barely move...for two days.  

But, I had sooooooo much fun and laughed so much and would definitely go again.  And the last two times down the mountain I didn't fall at all.  So I know that somewhere inside of me lies dormant an amazing (or at least mediocre) skier.  

At the beginning of our trip, Heidi reminded her kids of their skiing rules....which, if I remember right, were:

1) No complaining, and

2) No crying

And, this time, as a 32 year-old, I was able to keep the rules of skiing.  I didn't cry, I didn't complain, and I didn't end up in the lodge eating french fries.  Progress...definite progress.