Of Nordic Gods and Princesses

Tuesday morning, my day off! I am stoked. Today will be my first day on skis; I have a lesson scheduled at Okemo Mountain, a perk that comes with employment there.

I am taking Sylvia with me, for moral support. Happily, Okemo also offers free lessons and ski rentals to all during the opening weeks of the season. My granddaughter, aged 12, was on skis once before 2 years ago, but she will be taking the beginners class along with me.

An early riser myself, I fix my usual oatmeal breakfast in my own efficiency kitchen in the basement. I take my second cup of coffee upstairs to the dining room table, to chat with whatever of my six grandchildren might arise early. Sylvia, however, is a late sleeper. I sip coffee, time passes, and still no Sylvia. It is almost 8 a.m. now and I want to leave at 8:15 for our 10:00 lesson; Sylvia saunters down the stairs sleepy eyed, hair dissheveled.

“Sylvia, it’s time to go. What are you planning to wear?,” I ask her.

“Um. I have a pair of ski pants.”

They are pink hand-me-downs. Later on, sitting next to me in the car she gently says, as if to set the record straight, “I hate pink.” That strikes me as funny, because I think she looks beautiful in pink, with her long blond hair and delicate features.

The crisp Vermont air greets me as I go outside to get the car ready. It will need time to warm up, and then there is the ice to scrape. At last Sylvia emerges and our adventure begins.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the day-skiers parking lot. This is where I park five mornings a week, looking out of place in my khakis and sheepskin jacket. Today I blend in, with my down-filled pants and a ski jacket I found in the hand-me-down box. Sylvia is wide awake now; we share the rising excitement.

We find the ski school counter. We fill out the forms, move along to the ski rental area, and get fitted with boots and skis.

We are geared up and ready. We are running late. I have been scatter brained through these steps, dropping this, forgetting that. Sylvia goes ahead to find her instructor while I dash back inside for my gloves. Is it just the excitement, or am I subconsciously delaying my first encounter with skis. No more stalling, I push through the doors and look for the sandwich board that identifies the ski school rallying point. By the time I arrive, Sylvia is chatting comfortably with the group of instructors that are waiting for the last stragglers. That would be me. Not many beginners have arrived for these free lessons so early in the season, so Sylvia and I each get our own private instructor. A tall, graying blonde with glasses and deep smile lines dimpling his cheeks greets me.

“And you must be grandma,” he says.

I look up past broad shoulders to a handsome Nordic face that exudes kindness and confidence. We begin our two-hour lesson with some basics.

First, I learn how to walk uphill in skis. There are two methods: walking sideways, and walking head-on in a wedge. Standing sideways across the incline, I jam the inner edge of the downhill ski into the snow and lift the uphill ski, shifting my weight over the uphill ski. Then bring up the downhill ski making sure it anchors me with a good edged grip. Next, we do the wedge facing up the hill, a duck walk. Okay, that’s lesson one. Two more to go.

Next, we learn how to stop when going downhill. By now we are perhaps 50 feet up the slope. The ‘magic carpet’ (a long conveyor belt) ascends to my right, the ski lift and fast traffic to my left, and the base lodge just below and to the left. And where is the EMT stretcher, I wonder?

The wedge is my friend; the wedge is my friend. Ski tips together, heels far apart, the instructor goes over basics on how I should stand, how to distribute my weight and find balance. The stiff boots have a stranglehold on my feet, ankles and low shins. I should relax, lean into my boots and just glide down the slope. Then, to stop, I simply have to push my heels out to widen the wedge, and turn my arches in to put pressure on the inner edge of the ski, and voila! I stop. Or so handsome Sven leads me to believe.

Now this is where my age shows. I am reasonably fit, though no muscle-bound jock. I send the command down to the leg and foot muscles: “Dig into the snow, turn that edge in!” The right leg responds, but the left hears as if I am shouting from the mountain peak and it is lost in the mists below.

As long as the slope is shallow, I can manage to stop, sort of, eventually. So we move on. Next, we learn turns. First, we learn the left turn.

It doesn’t take long before I master the left turn. That faithful right toe digs in there, weight on the ball of the foot, shin putting weight against the boot, and smooth as frosting on the cake we turn left. I am so good at left turns that before long I have strayed too far into the fast lane! I stop, dig my skis in, and glance uphill. Two skiers fly by me, first one side then the other. Looking up I feel like a deer caught in headlights as the downhill skiers whoosh past me front and back. Sven calmly talks me out of danger.

Now, for the last step. Mastering the right turn. This is my weak side. I later learn that it is common for skiers to have one side stronger than the other. I tell the left toe to dig in, heel to thrust out. A feeble response. The Instructor, Sven, is in front of me skiing backwards downhill, as I come towards him. Over and over again, we try. He talks me through what my muscles and limbs should be doing, how my body should be standing, and we creep down the mountain. He is cheering me on, indefatigably good natured and smiling. Or grinning. Or is that a grimace?

Now we have reached the bottom of the slope. He shows me how to use the ‘magic carpet’. I waddle up to position like a fat old penguin, line myself up with the belt, and with my skis together inch my way forward until the belt grabs me. I am leaning forward braced for the motion, but still my shoulders are thrown back and my arms go out, like the wings of a bird winding up for takeoff.

I regain my balance, and enjoy the slow ride up. It gives me time to look around for Sylvia. I see the pink snowsuit on the snow by the top of the carpet. She and her instructor are standing at a short steep slide, down a burm, on the vertical. I confess that by the end of my lesson I still didn’t know what its instructive purpose is, I didn’t get that far. As I watch, Sylvia glides the vertical five feet smoothly, in control. And then she is off to the lift.

The ride dumps me off at the top, I am disoriented. I martial my thoughts to send signals, one by one, to every part of my body. Heels together, toes out, body forward, elbows tucked in, and the instructor gently reminds me that other people might be coming off the magic carpet and so I really need to move along if I don’t want to get plowed into. Oh, the pressure!

I shuffle over to face down the slope again. Sven tells me to look up, not at my feet. But when I look up I see how steep the slope is, and how far away is the bottom. My stomach knots. Then I really have to take myself to task. This is fun, I can do this, I need to relax. Take a deep breath, and relax every part of the body, like I learned to do in yoga. So I take a moment, breath deeply, look up and feel the thrill of the moment. I am on skis, on the slope, I have a handsome man giving me his undivided attention, the sun is shining, the snow is perfect (so this is what they mean by ‘powder’), I am having fun. Yes!

Sven is instructing me to take wide turns to the left and right, snaking our way down the mountain. Again, no trouble with the left turn, but the right is still giving me fits. Again, I wander dangerously close to the speed demons whizzing down the mountain. At a lull in the traffic, I do a lateral shuffle and head back to Sven.

Try again. I am getting a little impatient with myself. Patient Sven repeats the instructions that, by now, my own brain should be sending to my limbs. I am determined this time; I feel my whole body stiffen and twist, even my fingers curl with the effort to dig that left toe in, to find the edge. My feet are in the wedge, I have forward momentum. I am willing myself to the right. I am gaining speed, but the vertical drop is not changing in the slightest to horizontal. So I try to dig both edges in for a stop. The right seems to respond, but that deaf and dumb left ski glides along flat and merry. Sven is in front of me, legs in a wide V with heels together. He is skiing backwards, facing me. My speed increases, and I fly right into him. My skis, still attached to my body, slip under him. His hands are out, grabbing me. I am horizontal, all but my shoulders which are in his hands, and we are drifting down the mountain.

He pulls me towards him, to maintain his center of gravity. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I climb up his body. In spite of the danger, my sense that things have gone terribly wrong, the inner female speaks: Oh my, I haven’t been this close to a man in years!

Somehow he manages to get me upright again, and I lock my skis in the ‘stop’ wedge. Once again to the magic carpet we go up. Laughing at my foibles, light hearted although clearly I still am not getting it, I am determined to continue. I can do this!

Of all the spills I take, one in particular is worrisome to the weak knee. I fall straight down, sitting on the back of my skis, my knees locked. It is painful. Sven is game to maintain his charming calm to the bitter end, but after an hour and a half of the two hour lesson my aching knee calls it quits. As we are saying farewell a skier comes up to him, urging him to his next activity. Apparently, the youth races he was meant to coach this afternoon are about to begin. He explains a little about them to me, with obvious relish, and off he goes with another skier who has also come looking for him. I change back into my own boots, and stand on terra firma for the next twenty minutes admiring Sylvia’s progress.

I am able to pick out the pink of Sylvia’s snowsuit high on the ski lift. I watch a while longer, amused by the sight of a row of ‘Snow Stars’, ages three to six in their bright orange vests, all in a row like ducklings, smoothly making long arcing curves down the high slope herded by their instructor.

Then my eye catches a sight of pink. Here comes Sylvia, a serene look on her lovely face, in beautiful form sashaying through the curves and over the bumps after a long run down the slope. She meets with her instructor for a last debriefing.

The lesson over, Pete informs me that Sylvia has mastered the ‘green’ (easy level) slope. Her next lesson should take her on the more challenging blue slope. I am in awe. Am I a proud grandma, or what?

Leaving the rental area we are back out on the pavement and stairs leading down to the archway under the clock tower. I point to the upstairs windows, where my office is.

We walk across the parking lot to the car. My knee is fine until I try to climb into the drivers seat. I wince. For the next week, I will enter the car like an old lady. Feet and knees together, back into the seat, swing the legs around. But hey, a small price to pay for the priceless memory of a shared adventure with my granddaughter, and my first day on skis.