Do you ever consciously think about walking? Like plot out how you’re going to get up from a chair and walk across a room? Well, I do. I don’t have a physical disability or anything, but for as long as I can remember body movement has never come naturally.
So it will come as no shock that I’ve always lacked rhythm and coordination. I have no idea how to dance, I can’t clap on beat no matter how hard I try, I’m forever covered in bruises just from banging into things, and as far as sports—well, forget about it.
However, my ever-supportive parents never gave up on me, enrolling me in all sorts of lessons from ringette and gymnastics to dance and basketball camps. After failing another level of swimming lessons and donning a new black eye after a balance beam blunder, my parents finally caved and allowed me to throw in the towel.
Life was great. I did puzzles and paintings and feverishly tore through book series, but soon the good times came to an end.
Halfway through Grade 6 my family moved from Ontario to Nova Scotia. I showed up at my new school feeling more nervous and uncomfortable than usual, but my new teacher assured me everything would be fine and I had arrived just in time for the annual ski trip. Great.
I had never been skiing, but judging my history with athleticism I figured I probably wasn’t good at it. I pleaded with my mother to let me stay home—I’d cook and clean, just please don’t make me go. However, hopeful that I would make new friends, she shoved my puffy body into a puffier snowsuit and sent me on my way.
It wasn’t until we’d all unloaded off the big yellow school bus that I discovered I was the only kid in my whole class who had never been skiing before, and I would have to do a few practice runs on the “bunny hill” before joining the rest of my classmates.
While I watched everyone else line up for the chairlift, I trudged over to the desolate lump of a hill and practiced sliding down and literally crawling, with skis in the air, back up the hill. Hours passed, but no one ever came to relieve me of my bunny hill solitude.
Bored and lying on my back staring up at the clouding sky, a ski hill employee politely informed me that my whole class had left without me about 30 minutes ago.
Feeling defeated and soggy, I vowed to never visit another ski hill again.
That all changed when I was 15 and a cute boy asked me to go snowboarding with him. Eager to impress I lied, telling him I loved spending weekends at the nearby ski hill.
Two hours into the not-so-romantic affair, I was sitting in the ski hill’s main lodge with a sprained ankle, once again feeling defeated and soggy.
That was almost 10 years ago and since then I’ve become a confident person who relishes diving into new experiences. For years I had forgotten about my emotional skiing trauma, however, when my editor told me I’d be going to Marmot Basin for a “learn to ski” article, I felt sick. In protest, I told him I wouldn’t be very good at typing with a broken wrist, but it was already a done deal.
The dreaded day came and I realized I didn’t even have snow pants. Riffling through a plastic tote, I pulled out one of my most prized thrift store finds—a purple and teal one-piece straight from 1983.
Awkwardly idling in my driveway, I texted my mom notifying her of the day’s plans. She responded: “Omg. Skiing? Good luck, have fun, be careful and I’ll start saying my prayers.”
With that morale boost, it was off to Marmot Basin.
Trying to get excited, I played upbeat music all the way up the road and by the time I reached the parking lot I was feeling pretty positive. However, that changed the very second I stepped into the rental area. A wave of nausea, self-pity and disdain hit me all at once. I know that sounds super-dramatic, but it’s true. No matter how hard I tried to fake a smile and be a good sport, it was evident to everyone that I did not want to be there.
“Are you excited?” asked a smiling employee as she helped me wiggle my feet into the rented boots.
“No,” I replied.
I didn’t mean to be so blunt, it just kind of came out that way.
Once I was fully geared I met Jezz, my ski instructor for the afternoon.
“Are you excited?” he asked.
“No.”
Jezz and I laughed awkwardly as we headed outside to the small beginner’s hill.
To my surprise, when I recounted Jezz with my two ski hill incidents and confided in him that I had no idea what I was doing, there was no laughing or judgment. He said we would go slow and do things until I was comfortable.
For about half an hour, we went over the basics starting with how to put skis on, hip movements and gripping, allowing me to walk—not crawl—up an incline. With Jezz’s encouragement I slid down the learners’ hill, expecting a wipeout that never came.
We did this over and over, adding more hip movements and carving techniques until I was deemed ready for the Eagle Express chairlift.
As we made our way to the top, from up high I spun my head from left to right, looking down over Jasper, and once we slid off the chair I finally started understanding why people might like to spend their free time doing this.
Despite the elevation gain, Jezz told me I’d be doing all the same actions we had practiced down at the bottom, and with that a light snow started falling and we we’re off sliding down the slope. I only fell once!
After my time was up, as I was returning my rented garb, I started apologizing to every staff member I had hated a few hours ago. I had to admit I had a fantastic time.
So, without trying to sound like a cheeky ad for Marmot Basin, if you’re like me and have been harbouring a burning loathing for winter sports, then quit relying on friends or crushes to teach you, shell out the few extra bucks and actually get someone who knows what they’re doing to show you how to manage the hills—trust me, it makes all the difference.
And while I still can’t clap on beat or do a flip on a balance beam, I don’t think that will discourage me from slapping on a pair of skis again this winter. We’re so fortunate to live in this mountainous playground, and I hope everyone gets to enjoy that no matter the season.
Kayla Byrne
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