Alpine skiing provides a perfect metaphor for life: I choose my line; I decide details as I turn my way down a mountainside; I must respond — and quickly — to a lot of obstacles I didn’t see coming.
Sometimes, I follow in another’s tracks. Sometimes, I break my own trail. Occasionally, I tumble; but I pick myself up, dust the snow off and start again.
And as with anything else in life, practice makes progress. Years ago, I could not imagine warming up on black diamond runs, but now I do just that.
And once I’ve lived to tell the tale of picking my way down through deep powder or Volkswagen Beetle-sized bumps, everything else seems like a catwalk.
Much like life.
I skied my first alpine runs much earlier in my life, in the mid-’70s on Buck Hill in Minnesota — the same icy slopes where, in turn, Lindsey Vonn carved her first turns.
I ski exactly like Lindsey Vonn.
In my dreams.
In reality, there’s no way I tip ’em and rip ’em like Colorado’s gold-medal girl. But I still take a shine to the sport. For me, downhill skiing is uplifting and downright inspiring. I can’t get enough of the exhilarating sensation of gliding through glades, schussing past rock formations and strafing the winter wonderland.
Skiing’s visual rewards include privileged vistas of jagged mountain ranges, spruce saddles and vast valleys that can only be observed from, quite literally, the top of the world. Sometimes I ogle cloudscapes. Sometimes, if the sky went any more blue, it would be purple. Ravens wheel overhead. The occasional red fox dashes over a snowdrift into the woods. The gondola sails through treetops of dense pine and aspen forests. Even the lift lines entertain, with their parades of colorful ski togs and equipment, now more creatively designed than ever.
Maybe, as one New Age friend insists, the feel-good nature of skiing owes to all those crystals. A snowflake, naturally, is a crystal. In a certain light and temperature, when the pristine, high-altitude snowfields sparkle just like those Currier and Ives Christmas cards spangled with iridescent glitter, I see her point.
To ski is to enter another reality. From Denver, hibernal heavens are relatively close — lucky for us, given the fact that other winter-sports enthusiasts must travel from around the globe to converge on Colorado’s resorts. Some come to bask in the ambiance, but never brave the hills.
The physical demands of alpine skiing are considerable. The sport obviously demands a certain degree of athleticism. Just walking up and down stairs in clumsy ski boots while shouldering weighty skis and wielding awkward poles can prove daunting.
Skiing can require the use of specific muscles at intensity levels not duplicated in other activities. Consequently, ski season inspires me to stay fit year-round. My yoga practice, lap-swimming, bicycling, walking and rowing all help me maintain the flexibility, strength, and cardiovascular stamina required to ski in the rarefied air.
Though I’m 50, while skiing, I feel like a kid. Afterwards? A senior citizen. Hot tubs and Epsom salts help.
In addition to physical fitness, downhill skiing makes psychological demands. To ski, one must face fear, yet not focus on the fearful. Stepping into a mountainside’s gravity field requires confidence — and builds confidence. Ideally, I ski safely within my limits, yet dare to push my edges.
Archeological evidence suggests the ski was invented before the wheel — about 500 years before — and skiing originally was more about survival than sport. When skiing shifted from a utilitarian endeavor to a recreational one, the human spirit spurred skiers to go faster, into the steep and the deep, off jumps, and through impossibly tight slalom turns á la Olympians.
But even basic alpine skiing requires focus. Downhilling requires me to remain present in each moment, considering every turn rather than the never-ending to-do list normally looping in my head.
When I ski, each turn helps wipe clean the cluttered slate of my mind because I’m concentrating, instead, on my skiing. Instant by instant, I’m taking in the terrain, finding balance in space, and maneuvering to avoid life-threatening obstacles. While I’m working up a ski sweat, it’s almost impossible to sweat deadlines or other day-to-day details.
As any alpine skier knows, positive thinking is powerful. One must focus on the fall line, but not on falling. Yet, if you ski, you fall. Sooner or later, you cross tips, catch an edge, or execute a face-plant. It’s not a matter of if, but when.
Alpine skiers risk almost as many possible injuries as there are pinecones in the forest. They accept inherent danger because of the payoff: Finding one’s rhythm in the snow on the slopes can feel like flying, or waltzing with the mountain.
Many traditions associate mountaintops with divinity. For me, skiing imparts a spiritual sense of freedom.
Of course, alpine skiing is not free. I’ve never participated in a sport that requires so much gear. And the equipment is not inexpensive. Nor are lift tickets, parking fees, or lunch in the ski lodge.
But the alpine skiing experience is priceless, which is why — despite costs plus hassles plus risks — so many people return time and time again to the slopes. You can’t put a dollar amount on the liberating sensation and inspiration found only in downhill skiing.
The mountain will always be new, always presenting unpredictable challenges. Skiing humbles me, but no other sport has ever given me such a sense of accomplishment. After a day on the slopes, the celebratory après-ski scene caps the peak experience with the camaraderie of rosy-cheeked, adrenaline-charged alpine people comparing ski tips and tales in hot tubs or over hot toddies.
Typically, after several consecutive days of skiing, while cruising down I-70 from the high country to the Mile High City, my spirits sink low. My inner Austrian envies ski bums. I resent the flat landscape, the smog, this other reality and its responsibilities.
But I also understand that as in skiing, so in life: It’s all about balance.
Colleen Smith, whose first novel “Glass Halo” was a finalist for the 2010 Sante Fe Literary Prize, is finishing a nonfiction book titled “Laid-Back Skier: As In Skiing, So In Life.”
Lessons will open up hill for you
The quickest way to advance from careening out of control to carving graceful, ribbon-candy turns is to invest in skiing lessons.
“If you haven’t been on shaped skis, you’re missing an easier time on the hill. But I do recommend lessons, especially for first-timers,” said Cathy Schwartz, a store manager for Christy Sports, one of the region’s largest snowsport equipment retailers.
“Don’t try to learn from a loved one. Hire a professional,” said Schwartz, a ski veteran of 30 years.
“We’re in the business of helping people create confidence,” said Cliff Edwards, an instructor in the Vail Snowsports School for 30 years.
“You can hack your way around and muscle through, but the more you learn about skiing technique, the more fun you’ll have,” Edwards said. “With the new equipment, skiing has never been easier, and it’s a lifetime sport.”
Lessons can make more of the mountain accessible. “At Vail, and probably at most Colorado resorts, 80 percent of skiers are on 20 percent of our terrain,” Edwards said.
“When you improve, you can get off the crowded groomed runs and into the national forest. Skiing is a vehicle to take you to incredible places,” Edwards said. “It’s all about the passion for the outdoors, having fun and sharing this sport with family and friends, but you do have to ski for yourself.”
Challenging oneself is part of the joy of skiing. “I encourage students to enjoy the process, because we never stop learning,” Edwards said. “Even the best skiers in the world have their coaches.”
Group lessons cost less, and depending on how busy the ski school is, you might find yourself in a very small class. I once signed up for a group powder-skiing lesson, and only one other student showed up. Of course, it might have had something to do with the blizzard, but snow days don’t close ski schools.
Colleen Smith
