A few thoughts… On learning to ski

By Sandy Compton
Reader Staff

Winter has finally arrived, though the frosting on my small forest looks more like December than January. Thankfully, the frosting is much thicker on our mountains. I’ve not had to use the snowblower or shovel down here — at least not yet. Up there is plenty to ski on.

Those who first took me skiing put me in leather boots and Head 210s at the Alpine Shop in the day lodge at Schweitzer. Then, they loaded me on Chair 2 (née Baby Bear) and waved goodbye. By 1 p.m., I was beat up, soaking wet, blue cold, frustrated beyond anger and completely demoralized. I took the skis off and walked back to the lodge. I’m stubborn, but not that stubborn.

A few hours later, my “friends” showed up, all happy about their day of skiing. I let it go then, but I have come to see that it was not fair. Not that life is fair, but if this happened today, I’m not sure we would stay friends without a sincere apology. Hence, I learned to ski late. My first attempt was such a disaster, I swore I’d never ski again. I kept that promise for 20 years.

Two decades after the disaster, when the Great Escape came online, I was working at Jean’s Restaurant in what’s now Selkirk Lodge. My fellow waitstaff insisted I try again. 

“You have a pass!” they cried, as if it is mortal sin not to use it. Which it may be.

I relented. The snow evangelists directed me to a group lesson, in which I learned ski “physics”: how to stop (very important); how to get up; how to put skis back on after they pop off, which they did often. I also learned to “weight” a ski into an arc, and set a path to the next arc. I became somewhat addicted.

My friends found me a set of poles and advised me on clothing. They made runs with me, though they sometimes had to wait at the bottom of the lift. Sometimes they didn’t wait, but gave me a tip or two before skiing away. A patroller friend gave the “Best 19-Word Ski Lesson” when he growled, “If you don’t get your hands out in front of you, I’m going to kick you in the butt.” His wife was equally helpful regarding glade skiing: “Don’t look at the trees. Look at the holes between.”

That season, with the help of friends and many positive experiences  — combined with my stubbornness — I traversed from the bunny hill to the top of No Joke, where I stood on the last day, wondering if I could survive a black diamond all the way to the run-out. A friend — on ancient Head 210s — came to a halt beside me; his ski tips hovering well over the edge. He pushed his goggles up, grinned and said, “What are you waiting for?” Then, he dropped in, and I chased him. I survived it, and have many times since. 

Skiing is transcendental. If you get off on the right foot, many adventures await — some less than pleasant, perhaps, but many more that will make you grateful for learning how, and have you blessing those who gave you a hand up and hints about your next few turns. 

Since that first real season of skiing, I’ve watched for people who might be having a similar first experience to mine. I’ve taught a few to ski better, if they were willing to listen.

Friends shouldn’t let friends learn to ski — or board  — alone. It’s only fair to help.

Sandy Compton’s new book, Something About Miracles, is available at Vanderford’s in Sandpoint, or online at bit.ly/ComptonOnAmazon.