TERRY COLUMN: Falling down a Big Mountain

I’m not a skier.

That’s all I could think while lying in the middle of a ski hill at Whitefish Mountain Resort this weekend.

My dad came out to visit, and being a good host, my plan was to show him all of the fun stuff to do in the Flathead Valley on a three-day trip.

We went to Glacier National Park on a beautiful, clear day. We frequented the many restaurants and breweries in the Valley and my dad, a city boy, bought a pair of cowboy boots.

But, the big event was always going to be the skiing.

My dad skis. Or skiied, at least, pretty regularly in his youth. Despite living in Detroit for most of his life, or possibly because of it, he loves Montana and the more-relaxed Western lifestyle.

And the mountains sure don’t hurt to look at.

Seeing as I live in one of the best ski communities in the country, it seemed like a good idea to invite him out for a day on the slopes.

I’ve been skiing once, which to my easily incouragable ego meant I should have been at least able to use my dormant athleticism to fake it until I got the hang of things and was carving up the mountain in no time.

From what I remembered, it was mostly fun despite a number of falls. I even remembered being able to go down a pretty long run without falling.

So, after a full weekend of touring the Valley, we headed toward the mountain on Monday.

After getting fitted and renting equipment in town, we drove up to the base lodge as early as possible to take advantage of what would likely be a light crowd.

I immediately remembered how cumbersome ski boots are. There’s no easy way to get around in them. Just walking is a chore, let alone climbing stairs.

It hit me soon afterward that I haven’t worked out nearly enough to prevent the avalanche of muscle aches that would be coming my way for the next week.

After we got our passes, some of my skiing memories began to come back to me.

From my one lesson nearly five years ago, I remembered how to put on my skis.

I made my way to the chair lift with all the grace of a baby deer, but remembered the basics of getting on and off. I even looked pretty impressive sliding off the chair and around the corner to the top of the small hill above the base lodge.

Baby steps now, I thought, bigger hills later.

Halfway down the hill I was feeling good.

My dad, nearly 30 years removed from his days shredding the snow-covered sand dunes of Michigan, never missed a beat. He was carving left and right like he’d been on Big Mountain all season.

I, however, began to have my doubts.

The snowplow method that worked so well in my memories began to fall apart. Turning left worked well, turning right didn’t.

That’s only really a good thing in NASCAR.

I tried to do that thing where I straighten my skis out and let my instincts take over, but my legs forgot how to do that move. Instead, they chose to go different directions and I “chose” to fall over.

Falling, as I remembered, didn’t hurt. Getting up wasn’t so easy. That dormant athleticism was sleeping a bit harder than I originally thought.

Realizing that even the modest hill was probably a stretch for the first run, I moved over to the magic carpet with the toddlers and cut-out cartoons.

After getting back some of my confidence, and a stop for lunch and a beer in the lodge, I went back to the bigger bunny hill.

After a few runs I made it clean down the hill, with very little panic and no falls.

My plan had worked. There were many fist pumps and high fives.

Which brings me back to the middle of the hill.

That easily incouragable ego was sure I had the hang of the whole skiing thing when I went down the hill again. I felt comfortable and was moving well, sure I could probably make a regular trip up this way next winter.

Somewhere between that thought and the bottom of the hill, I managed to go sideways, lose a ski and wrap myself around the other. As I slid down the mountain on my stomach, catching snow in my coat, I could feel there’d be a significant bruise on my leg, whenever it was I got the feeling back in that limb.

I’m not a skier. And this is probably why I’ve been away from the sport for so long. Spending this much money to be frustrated and sore is a right reserved for golfing in the summer.

But for everything I’m not, I’m also not a quitter.

I found all of my equipment in its various ZIP codes and gingerly made it back to the bottom of the lift. The next trip down wasn’t pretty, but I also didn’t fall.

A devout believer in leaving the gym on a make, I figured that would be enough for the day.

My dad had the time of his life and we got enough pictures to fill a gallery. Despite the struggles, there was a smile on my face in every single one.

I’m not a skier.

Maybe I’m a snowboarder.

I think I’ll have to make another trip to find out.