new skills: pizza and French-fry stances, proper arm positioning, how to shuffle into place for the ski lift and where the snacks are. All are essential for good skiing. Veya refuses to cooperate when we try to
take her ski boots off, shrieking in the ski-school building so loudly that it echoes. We eventually calm her down and remind her she’s skiing at a different resort, Powder Mountain, tomorrow. “OK,” she relents, her face red and wet with
tears. Her body relaxes so we can ease the boots off her feet. “I’m a little tired anyway. Skiing is fun, but it’s a little hard.” While both Snowbasin and Powder Mountain
are among the best of Utah’s ski resorts, they couldn’t be farther apart in style. Snowbasin’s wealth of amenities includes majestic lodges with stunning views and marble bathrooms. Powder Mountain reminds me of a ’70s family ski resort frozen in time, straight down to the eclectic basement-style Powder Keg with its hearty meals. Veya’s ski school at Pow Mow consists of a semi-private lesson, and she introduces herself to her instructor by listing her acquired skills from the day before. We begin the morning by skiing along on her first runs—close enough to see what she’s doing, but far enough away to avoid distracting her. One time, however, we get a little too close, and I can hear her squeal as I pass. “Mom! You’re a good skier!” she shouts. We wait for her to catch up before we say goodbye for the day. My husband Doug is a far better skier than I am, but her eyes are locked on me at the moment, as she declares her desire to ski as well as I do. I kneel down so that our faces are close. “When it all seems really hard,” I say, “so hard that you want to quit, remember what it feels like when you’re having fun. Sometimes, those
hard moments are worth it.” Sensing my nervousness, Veya touches my
right leg. “Be careful,” she says. “You’re better now. Are you having fun?” I assure her I am, and I have even more fun
when I know that she is, too. All of a sudden, the moment is over. She’s
skied away with her instructor, eager to get back to her business of pizzas and French fries. But watching her embrace a new sport with enthu- siasm and 6-year-old courage is like medicine for me. Tiny newbie skiers like her, playing games and bombing down beginner hills, bring back the thrill from the times I couldn’t wait to get off the lift—watching everyone else on the snow, eager for the ride to end so I could join them. Coupled with the adult mantra to “just do it” is the child’s lesson of play. Both are needed in my recovery, in this case. To erase bad memo- ries and move beyond them to rediscover why I do this to begin with. Why I carry bags full of gear each winter, pack cars, sit on planes, get up early, stand in lines. Why I’ll now be doing this with a child—packing her suitcase, herding her onto planes, entertaining her in the car, listening to her stories, wiping her tears. The child’s lesson wins out in the end. Today, despite taking some beginner warm- ups, I move more easily to the intermediate trails. My heart doesn’t leap into my throat when I take my first turn on a new run. My joints are looser, teeth are unclenched and movements no longer feel like a huge chore. Edges carve with- out difficulty in the light powder, cool air rushes across my face. It’s almost like floating down the mountainside, but without any rough landings. Before I learned to be scared, this was the feeling I loved about skiing. And now that the fear is in check, back to a healthy caution, I love this feeling even more. If I had put my ski boots
“See?” Doug says. “You can do it. You need to relax a litle, but you’re fine.”
away permanently after my injury and allowed my fear to be more powerful than my remem- brance of the fun of the sport, I wouldn’t have had this moment. It doesn’t erase the frustration of the tem-
porary loss of mobility, time on crutches or retraining for all my outdoor sports. But it makes my persistence through all those events worth it. Giving up is always an option. It’s the easiest one. But it takes the memory of what you enjoy, what you love to carry you through the challenges. On our last run before reuniting with Veya, a
skier sharing the lift with us expresses surprise that I’m skiing already, so soon after my break. “I have to,” I say. “I never considered not coming back this season. But it took until now to not be terrified about it.” When Veya sees us ski up to her, a smile lights up her face. She quickly glances over to her instructor before shouting at us, and everyone who happens to be nearby. “Look what I can do!”
I could have easily said the same thing. Q
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