Riding down the chairlift was a little embarrassing, but there were no broken bones or torn ligaments, so all in all, it was still a good day. I was informed that my day was probably over, and I agreed. Long story short, I lost control and found myself being transported back up the mountain (did I really slide that far down?) in a snowmobile with ski-patrol. The trail was narrow, curvy, and in my beginner’s perspective, very steep. You got this!”Īnd with this, and my nonsensical intrepid self, I got on the lift, somehow managed to get off without falling, and hung a right, like I had been told to. It’s like, basically the same as a bunny slope. But, a kind liftie (I didn’t know what they were called at the time) said “You know what? That lift over there will take you up to a green! Take a right when you get off. I arrived at the resort to learn that the bunny slope was closed (it was a pure block of ice, lo and behold). My plan was to do exactly what I had learned in that lesson: practice snow plow turns and try to get a little speed while parallel on the bunny slope. I put on a thick sweater, my warmest winter coat - a very long one (yeah, I know now!), two pairs of leggings, and sprayed on a lot of hope and excitement. I ended up going by myself since our spring breaks didn’t line up (I was a teacher at the time). We both had so much fun and planned to come back for the second and third days of our lesson-lift-tickets combo, to practice more and more, on the bunny slope. My son learned the same thing, only he called these skills pizza and French fries, which, incidentally, he also ate for lunch. ![]() I learned how to snow-plow and do a little parallel. ![]() I was so excited! I would be taking a day-long adults-only group ski lesson while my seven-year-old son did the same (in his own age group, of course!). A little over twelve years ago, I donned my first rental skis and boots on a snowy Saturday somewhere in the mid-Atlantic.
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