I am standing on top of a corniced ridge, the wind is picking up and with it the dark storm clouds are coming my way faster and faster, the light reflecting of the stark white snow has gone so flat that I can’t tell up from down, and I have only one viable option: drop my skis over a blind edge into an unknown bowl, in horrible lighting, before that storm hits. I have never regretted a helicopter trip so much.
I am not going to lie, it was the chance to get a helicopter ride into a back country hut in Canada that hooked me; the skiing was secondary. I can never turn down a chance to be alone with mountains and man do I love to fly. That is why I signed up for a week long back country ski trip when I hadn’t even bought touring skis, yet. I thought the trip would make for a great goal; drive me to learn faster. I was right about that. I spent every moment I could touring. Out of fear and pride I kept pushing myself. I drove all over Washington seeking new terrain and even did a few solo days when the inbounds lift areas were closed. Hiking up and skiing down what I normally would have taken a lift for. I discovered I loved it not because I got to ski new terrain but because I could access more terrain in winter. It was furthering my love for hiking that kept me going, the scary down part was what kept getting in the way of my perfectly good time.
Now just shy of four months after I had first fiddled my feet into my Dynafit bindings, I was in tears on a ridge feeling completely over my head. I was terrified not because I couldn’t do it but because I felt out of control. If I can’t see I don’t know where I am going. If I haven’t been down into this bowl before I have to assume it is as steep as the route we came up (over 40 degrees). I am standing on a cornice that I hope isn’t going to go under me or over me, and there is a storm coming, leaving me with little time to process all of this. I have never wanted to take my skis off and throw them off a mountain more, and for the record I have felt that way more than I care to admit. This moment is my experience with skiing wrapped up in a bow. Getting just good enough to be pushed too quickly past my limit.
My partner isn’t scared. He could ski anywhere I can ski with his eyes closed riding switch. He is patient and trying to reason with me, but he doesn’t understand the fear clawing at my heart. He doesn’t get that I don’t run on trust, I run on control. I don’t find it fun to fling myself blindly down a mountain. I want to know where I am going and how I am getting there before I commit to hurtling down a mountain with two sticks strapped to my feet. He doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to ski. He will never understand my fear. Luckily for both of us, I have discovered that there are two things more powerful than my fear-survival and pride. I know I can’t stay up here with a storm coming in and I know damn well that I am not going to let anyone else help me down. I swallow my tears, tell my partner to lead the way and I drop down after him, following every turn. He is my Seeing Eye dog. If I focus on him, I have a light in the storm to bring me home.
As I am watching him, turn by turn, I can’t think on anything else and there is the tiniest amount of joy in this terrifying run. A hopeful light that is trying to chase away the clawing fear. Once we stop, though, I feel like I am going to throw up.”I just did that and I lived,” I thought as I bent over my knees and gulped deep breaths, realizing that I had been holding my breath the whole scary run.
We were out of the storm path now, protected by the ridge we just came off of, the light here is good enough that I can find my own way again. Now I am exhausted and worse I am embarrassed. Now that I am out of it my brain is already forgetting the fear, changing the story to be one of fun and not paralyzing terror. My brain is very good at this little trick, drinking a beer in the sunshine safe from the storm also helps. Shaking a little, I start training my eye on other faces and bowls I want to ski. Bigger faces start calling my name. If that storm comes in hard the tree skiing should get good too, maybe we should explore that. That little ray of joy and hope is outshining the fear, changing my perspective and altering my memory.
The next day I find myself hunkered down next to a big rock on a steep wide open apron of snow, transitioning out of skins and radioing out to anyone above or below us that we’re dropping. My partner takes off first. I give him space this time, after all we got new snow and that could lead to avalanches. As I come out from behind the rock, I can see straight down to my partner, tiny and waiting for me at the bottom. Today the joy wins. I push off following his line and making my own turns down the mountain. A smile is creeping across my face as I go.
This is the way with Nature though, one day she will try to kill you and the next she will breathe new life into you.
I am not going to lie, it was the chance to get a helicopter ride into a back country hut in Canada that hooked me; the skiing was secondary. I can never turn down a chance to be alone with mountains and man do I love to fly. That is why I signed up for a week long back country ski trip when I hadn’t even bought touring skis, yet. I thought the trip would make for a great goal; drive me to learn faster. I was right about that. I spent every moment I could touring. Out of fear and pride I kept pushing myself. I drove all over Washington seeking new terrain and even did a few solo days when the inbounds lift areas were closed. Hiking up and skiing down what I normally would have taken a lift for. I discovered I loved it not because I got to ski new terrain but because I could access more terrain in winter. It was furthering my love for hiking that kept me going, the scary down part was what kept getting in the way of my perfectly good time.
Now just shy of four months after I had first fiddled my feet into my Dynafit bindings, I was in tears on a ridge feeling completely over my head. I was terrified not because I couldn’t do it but because I felt out of control. If I can’t see I don’t know where I am going. If I haven’t been down into this bowl before I have to assume it is as steep as the route we came up (over 40 degrees). I am standing on a cornice that I hope isn’t going to go under me or over me, and there is a storm coming, leaving me with little time to process all of this. I have never wanted to take my skis off and throw them off a mountain more, and for the record I have felt that way more than I care to admit. This moment is my experience with skiing wrapped up in a bow. Getting just good enough to be pushed too quickly past my limit.
My partner isn’t scared. He could ski anywhere I can ski with his eyes closed riding switch. He is patient and trying to reason with me, but he doesn’t understand the fear clawing at my heart. He doesn’t get that I don’t run on trust, I run on control. I don’t find it fun to fling myself blindly down a mountain. I want to know where I am going and how I am getting there before I commit to hurtling down a mountain with two sticks strapped to my feet. He doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to ski. He will never understand my fear. Luckily for both of us, I have discovered that there are two things more powerful than my fear-survival and pride. I know I can’t stay up here with a storm coming in and I know damn well that I am not going to let anyone else help me down. I swallow my tears, tell my partner to lead the way and I drop down after him, following every turn. He is my Seeing Eye dog. If I focus on him, I have a light in the storm to bring me home.
As I am watching him, turn by turn, I can’t think on anything else and there is the tiniest amount of joy in this terrifying run. A hopeful light that is trying to chase away the clawing fear. Once we stop, though, I feel like I am going to throw up.”I just did that and I lived,” I thought as I bent over my knees and gulped deep breaths, realizing that I had been holding my breath the whole scary run.
We were out of the storm path now, protected by the ridge we just came off of, the light here is good enough that I can find my own way again. Now I am exhausted and worse I am embarrassed. Now that I am out of it my brain is already forgetting the fear, changing the story to be one of fun and not paralyzing terror. My brain is very good at this little trick, drinking a beer in the sunshine safe from the storm also helps. Shaking a little, I start training my eye on other faces and bowls I want to ski. Bigger faces start calling my name. If that storm comes in hard the tree skiing should get good too, maybe we should explore that. That little ray of joy and hope is outshining the fear, changing my perspective and altering my memory.
The next day I find myself hunkered down next to a big rock on a steep wide open apron of snow, transitioning out of skins and radioing out to anyone above or below us that we’re dropping. My partner takes off first. I give him space this time, after all we got new snow and that could lead to avalanches. As I come out from behind the rock, I can see straight down to my partner, tiny and waiting for me at the bottom. Today the joy wins. I push off following his line and making my own turns down the mountain. A smile is creeping across my face as I go.
This is the way with Nature though, one day she will try to kill you and the next she will breathe new life into you.