Never, Ever, Ever

by Maggie Kapustin

“Want to use some of our Frequent Flier Miles for a skiing trip to Utah?” It all started with Doug’s innocent enough question about a January visit to his best friend’s new home.  Enthusiastically, I agreed, thinking not so much of the ski adventure ahead as the scenery and the mountain air I’d breathe. Big mistake number one. It should have occurred to me, months before, that skiing would not be my forte when a childhood friend, upon hearing of my upcoming trip, asked if I was sure I should don a pair of skis. “You, Margaret? Seriously?” he’d queried. I dismissed his questions and doubt as silliness steeped in some unfortunate memories of my high school days and former maladroitness. I’ve changed. I have a personal trainer now. I’ve lost some weight. I’m running three miles several times a week. Okay, just twice a week, but all the same, it’s different now. Mistake number two.

Copyright, Doug Kapustin Photography, 2014

Mistake number three was actually spending the money to ski, renting the equipment, and not allowing my instinct to win; an instinct that was telling me—no, yelling at me—to run far and to run fast. Instead of running, I wrangled my daughter, Tate, into taking the lesson with me. She was only a touch reluctant, but it’s important to note that she had never actually witnessed my lack of coordination; she had only heard the certainly overly exaggerated stories from my childhood family and friends. They just love teasing my mom, she must have assumed. God bless Tate for having that confidence in me—enough confidence to forego her own pride and dignity by marching headstrong across a ski slope that was promised to be “practically flat” (it wasn’t) in incredibly uncomfortable boots for our protection (protection from comfort, I can only guess) to meet our ski instructor, Nek. 

Nek was a nice guy, I’d say, though a bit egocentric. That being said, I would expect that sort of self-assurance from a ski instructor, so no big deal, I thought when we met. Age- wise, he was probably in his late 50s, and I viewed him as a well-seasoned person who could possibly teach even the likes of me to ski. He was an expert, and our lesson was aptly named “Never, Ever.” Never indeed. The name gave me comfort because the resort had chosen to dedicate a lesson to those of us who had never, ever skied. We knew nothing. Skis, what are they? Do you wear them on your feet or your hands? Never, ever, ever have I needed to know, so teach me slowly. 

I’ve got this; I’ve got this, I kept repeating in my mind, like a mantra, as Tate and I trudged across that surprisingly steep beginner slope to join our class. As an aside, it’s important to note again how happy I am that Tate experienced this day with me; I’m happy for many reasons, one being that if she had not seen it with her own eyes, Doug would never have believed the lesson progressed the way it did. 

Now that we’ve established her presence as a viable witness to everything that unfolded, it’s is also important and only fair to admit that she (along with the three other classmates) and I essentially experienced two very different sessions within the same group lesson. She and The Three experienced immediate success in their lesson. It was as if my little girl were born with skis attached to her nimble little trotters, while she was merely an onlooker to her mother’s confusing and acrobatic skiing experience, despite our technically being together. 

I really must give credit to our instructor. Nek was a patient man, I realize, especially now that I’ve recovered and can look back more objectively. At the time, though, I was convinced that he was channeling all the feelings of anyone who has ever wanted to watch me fail miserably, only with more fuel and frustration than all of them combined. Bless Nek’s heart. Until my Never, Ever, Ever lesson, I loved everything about snow. Or, fresh powder as Tate and the other successful members of our group lesson learned to call it. I was obliged to continue calling it snow. 

The first lessons were harmless, really. “This is a ski. Here are two of them. They attach to your ski boots.” And so it went. We learned the names for all of the ski parts and the reason for their being engineered for maximum speed. We learned that the poles are merely accessories (more on those later) unless you need to stand from a fall, turn from perpendicular to parallel with other skiers and the slope, or ride a ski lift. For any other purpose, the general rule was to pretend they were not in your hands. Pretend they aren’t there, you say, Nek? And just how might I go about this feat of memory loss and sensory absentia?  For me— absolutely certain these poles could save me from many creatively painful tumbles ahead— that was like asking me to pretend I didn’t have chocolate in my pocket (I did) or to pretend that I wasn’t hungry (I was). Their presence remained in the forefront of my mind, thereby causing our entire group to receive a side lecture on the psychology of the brain, according to Nek. I am sure the group wanted me dead at that point. I don’t blame them.  

At any rate, our first lesson was to “gently glide” on only one ski, using the poles to balance ourselves (this one time it was allowed), in a small circle, one at a time. Having five group members, including Tate and myself, this was intended to be quick pre-skiing activity. The other three students admitted that they had “dabbled” on the slopes once or twice before, or so they said. I now know that, even though they were kind and patient with my willingness to drop so many times one could only assume I rather enjoyed it, that their use of the term “dabbling” must have meant “advanced skiing”. In fact, they were progressing through each mini-lesson like they were training for the Sochi Olympics, and Tate was right there with them, no previous dabbling necessary on her part. 

I couldn’t have qualified for any contest at all with my own skiing, except maybe a slapstick comedy hour at the resort. Needless to say, my first fall was the gentle, one ski glide. I glided right into the mesh netting that separated skiers from the wooded embankment. Nek assured me that I simply had not found my body’s center of balance yet. No worries, he said as he offered a hand to help me stand. Then, he graduated me to Lesson Two, just like that. This part isn’t even required, he divulged as he leaned closer so no one else would know. 

I’ve got this, I repeated my mantra. I’m good enough to skip stuff. Did you hear that, fellow skiers? Tate just watched me with a kind look on her face. Thinking back, that look was a bit more you poor thing than I’m proud you’re my mom, but how could I be sure, honestly? It was cold and my sunglasses were foggy. 

Lesson Two seemed easy enough: Wear both skis and learn how to stand after a fall. Truth be told, this lesson proved to be the most beneficial for me throughout the morning. It was the only one I had occasion to try and to retry in a 3-hour period. I was very good at standing after a tumble. I could have become a licensed teacher of standing-up on the slopes. Standing after a fall on the face. Standing after a sideways slide. Standing after a backward flip. Standing after being tangled in mesh. I was a very good Stander. 

Lesson Three is where the lessons began to blur. We were at the top of the mountain, and after God knows how many Lessons, we were at the bottom. Okay, we weren’t really “at the top of mountain”. Perspective is everything, isn’t it? I later learned from Doug that the “top” to me was actually just the very last little portion of the bottom of the bunny slope. It’s all relative, though, and I all I knew was that I had unhooked my skis so many times to stand on that short portion of the hill we actually traveled that I rivaled and probably surpassed most newbies who had started from the very top. I had collided with both children and adults, loudly warning of our collision long before it happened, as if I were an omniscient observer announcing the fates of those nearby. I even crashed into a few unexpected things firmly planted on the slope’s edge, including a light pole. 

I learned that falling into a sitting position on your skis makes you zoom down the slope so fast you feel G-forces. And, it gets your instructor really anxious and upset. I learned The Skiers Code by hearing Nek yell it to me over and over. Evidently, other skiers have a Code of Responsibility to “always be in control of their skis” which was evidently where I appeared to struggle most. People on the slopes learned quickly to avoid me, recognizing that control was not a part of my game.  

Frankly, I wasn’t even in control once. The moment both skis were strapped to my suffocating compression boots and pointed downward, I was a loose cannon. I was reminded that, to stop, one must “pizza wedge” her skis, but I was not taught—until it happened—that pizza wedging too quickly resulted in making a giant X. A giant X meant a giant fall. You get the picture. 

After two hours of watching my patient fellow ski pupils nod compassionately at my shocking and uncontrollable hijinks, shaking their heads sympathetically when my poles were confiscated for the final time, we made it to the bottom of Mount Everest. Ready to shed my ski equipment and head to The Lodge for a latte and a wild raspberry scone (Utah is famous for these—I researched it), I waited in hopeful anticipation for the cue that the lesson was over. Instead, Nek introduced us to the final lesson: The Ski Lift. His introduction was a reminder of why he was holding four poles instead of two—two poles belonging to me and two of his own. He explained that I had abused the privilege of having poles, apparently. I’d get them back for the ski lift, though, Nek promised, using a cautionary tone. 

Thirty-four classes have I taken on the lift before yours. Thirty-four! And not one student has fallen in 34 classes. That was impressive. Nek shared this information while scooting sideways on his skis to stand beside me. The group looked on. Nek returned my poles, holding them like a talisman before me. From an outsider’s view, it might have appeared that the instructor and his star student were sharing a moment of triumph, but everyone in our little Never Ever, Ever Chamber of Horrors knew better. Nek was rallying to make me promise I wouldn’t break his record. He needed this.  

He was committed to riding the lift right by my side to ensure that I remained upright for the 12 seconds I had to get out of dodge. He attempted to enlist a volunteer to be seated on my other side for motivation. The group members were silent; no one wanted that cross to bear. Finally, Tate said she’d be on the lift with us. I am her mother, after all. 

Our group skied to the queue for the lift, one at a time, Tate and I waiting our turns at the back of the line. “Go Mama, you’ll be fine. We’ve got to get in line now,” Tate encouraged me from behind. But, I froze. Panic stricken, I literally couldn’t move a muscle. Nek came back to us, confused, but I was already a goner. I’m finished, Nek. You’re wonderful. Skiing isn’t for me. I stink. Have a great life. There, I said it. I sighed with relief and felt better already. 

Sympathetically, Nek hugged me and reminded me that he too learned to snowboard in his 50s. His 50s. I’m 39. He said I should have paid double for a private lesson, one without the ski lift. Minus the miscalculation of my age, he was right. I needed one-on-one guidance. I needed a ski slope void of life on which to learn. I needed many things I didn’t have, but mostly, at that moment, I needed a drink.

“Let’s go,” Tate said, taking charge. And that’s exactly what we did. We hobbled, skis and helmets in hand, to the nearest Lodge entrance, turned-in our resort skiing accoutrements, and ordered white chocolate lattes with scones. There were no wild raspberry scones on the menu, I learned from the barista as she handed me two pastries. As Tate and I lounged in the two perfectly overstuffed chairs of my mind’s eye, trying to forget the events of the past three hours, I questioned aloud why a resort in the middle of Utah ski country had never been told that their state was known for wild berry scones. “Who cares?” Tate said, sipping the frothy sweetness. “You are alive and I’ve got quite a  story to tell your grandchildren one day.”