Even though these people come from all over the state, all over the country even, they somehow all know each other. And they are so ecstatic to see each other that their greetings involve a lot of screaming and yelling, usually in the form of “Oh my God, hiiieeeeee!” or “Brooooooooo!” That is, unless one of them is a skier and the other is a snowboarder. Then they are coolly suspicious of each other, because apparently these two tribes are at war. It feels like I should be taking notes, compiling audio accounts.
I am clearly an outsider in this world, but even witnessing it is exciting. Everyone has the air of a hero, either heading out on a journey with the fire of ambition lighting their eyes or returning from an adventure loaded down with bragging rights. For me, all it takes is managing to get my heels stuffed inside my boots and my boots clicked into my skis to feel a sense of accomplishment, of belonging.
Richard and I shuffle into line, and in the five minutes we wait to get to the chairlift, my toes turn into little toe-shaped ice cubes. There must be a trick to keeping warm that I don’t know about, a special kind of socks or something, because no one else seems to be suffering. I daydream for a moment about a day when I’ll know all the tricks, after Richard and I get married at a ski resort and spend our honeymoon flying down black diamond trails, the most famous skiing couple that also happens to have a show on Broadway. I return to reality as I’m prompted to step onto the painted line. The chairlift whisks us up and away with startling velocity. My feet feel like they’re tied to cement blocks with the bulky weight of the skis, until I discover I can slip them on top of a short metal bar below my seat. A slim bar for your feet, a slim bar coming down over your head; it’s as if the designers thought it was best to make any level of support or protection almost invisible, because clearly skiers love danger.
About halfway up the mountain, Richard points out a sign far below. It reads,THESE MOUNTAINS WILL BE AS COLD AND LONELY TONIGHT AS THEY WERE200YEARS AGO. DO NOT SKI ALONE.I shiver. Great. As if I wasn’t already practically peeing my pants with nervousness.
“That’s why you’ve got me.” He nudges me, winking. I wink back, my stomach’s butterflies quieting slightly. I’ve got the protection of his old pro status on the slopes.
The part I’m most worried about is managing to get off the chairlift before it starts heading back down the hill, butRichard tells me to point my skis up and lean forward and then it’s done. I don’t even fall down! I’m a natural.
We start out on the bunny slope for my benefit. Richard is literally skiing backward down the hill in front of me, which is simultaneously humiliating and also fully dreamy. The air is so crisp and cold it feels like I’ve chugged an energy drink with each inhale; I’m extra awake and alive. I try to follow Richard’s directions.
“We’re going to start with the snowplow. Whenever you get into trouble, you can always get back to basics with a snowplow.”
“Okay.” I make the V shape with my skis just like the line of toddlers cruising down the hill next to me. I immediately slow down. This newfound power to control my speed makes me confident enough that my brain has space to wonder if I look cute in these snow pants. The fact that skiing is fun dawns on me. I start to play, pulling the backs of my skis together to speed up, pushing them out to slow. There are no brakes or gas pedals in my future, but this might be the next best thing. The melody from an electric guitar line that’s been playing behind a lot of video shorts lately runs through my head, and I rock out a little bit, bouncing my bent knees as I go. I’m killing this.
Suddenly, as I push my heels out again, the curved tips of the skis cross and slide over each other. Instantly, my legs are crossed. What happens next feels like a denial of basic physics: my left and right sides switch places, up becomes down, and I am at the total whim of gravity. Then, just as I had imagined, I am splayed, a snowy starfish, a kindergartner attempting a snow angel. Theshadow of Richard’s head appearing above me allows me to open my eyes more than a squint.
“Falling is part of skiing,” he says.
“Glad I’m getting the full experience, then,” I say as he helps me back onto my feet.
Then he shows me how to turn by shifting my weight, toward the left to turn right, toward the right to turn left. It seems counterintuitive, but in minutes I’m doing it! In my mind’s eye I see myself, like I’m a drone watching from above, as I cut back and forth across the hill, carving a clean white S trail into the snow.
I hear Richard behind me now. “Pop quiz!” he calls.
“What?”
Suddenly, he skis in front of me and stops. I’m barreling toward him. I don’t want to break both his legs—that is definitely not part of the ski-couple fantasy—so I turn to the left. Now I’m hurtling toward a very lethal-looking tree trunk. I turn again, hard. I’ve ended up on a small side trail, with the trees looming tightly on either side. Somehow my speed has increased and I seem to have lost control of my limbs when Richard flies past me and gives my left shoulder a tap. I tip into a snowbank, breathless.
Richard backtracks and flops down behind me so we’re almost spooning in the fluffy powder.
“You forgot to snowplow,” he says into my hair, his skis intertwined with mine.
“I had a lot on my mind. I was busy not flattening you.”
“I’m afraid you failed your quiz.” I feel his hand on my waist as he leans in and gently nips the part of my earlobe peeking out from under my hat.
“Oh no, how can I possibly make it up? There must be some extra credit you can assign me.”
I feel his tongue flick into my ear. If someone had told me before today how glorious a tongue in your ear could be, I never would have believed them. I’ve always had the firm conviction that wet ears are icky. But somehow, impossibly, this feels amazing.
“I’ve got a few ideas,” he says. He growls, wolf-style, and squeezes my torso in both hands with considerable force, like it’s taking all his self-control not to consume me right there.
I chuckle. “I’m sure you do.”
A couple of snowboarders come down the trail, bringing us back to reality. Richard pulls himself away and stands, hand out. “Looks like we have to explore this new trail you’ve chosen.”
“More like it chose me,” I laugh. We start down the hill, side by side now. The sensation of being synchronized with him makes me bold, and soon we’re at the bottom. Richard is flushed and bright-eyed, and I probably am, too, with the fun of it all.
“Want to go again?” he says.
“Absolutely.”
I am athletic and clever, I am rocketing up the learning curve of this chic sport in a place that looks like a scenery postcard, and the boy I am currently lusting after is openly lusting afterme back. My fantasy life and reality have never overlapped so much, not ever. The only thing that could tinge this perfection is my totally maladaptive tendency to be suspicious of things that seem too good to be true.
“Don’t think,” I say to myself. “Just ski.”
