In the Shondaland series The First Time, you’ll hear intoxicating tales about trips to new places and nuanced narratives about nerve-racking but rewarding career shifts. You’ll also step into stories in which what people believed to be true was challenged when experiencing something for the first time. Through it all, we hope you see that, no matter what’s next, there’s always a lesson to be learned.
“You know about pizza and French fries, right?” my charming instructor asked as I stood on a pair of skis for the first time in my life. Oh, do I know about pizza and French fries, I thought to myself — and I wasn’t referring to the kind I frequently stuff in my face. I’d spent the past several weeks preparing for this very moment, watching scads of YouTube tutorial videos and grilling my ski bunny friends for their expert tips. “Well, we don’t do pizza and French fries here,” he continued. Gulp.
For the uninitiated, “pizza” and “French fries” refer to the basic strategy of pivoting your skis into the shape of those beloved foods. An inward-facing slice of pie means stop. A pair of skinny parallel fries jutting forward means go. I’d come to Mt. Rose in the Lake Tahoe region believing that such iconography was as standard on the slopes as red, green, and yellow were on the streets.
My instructor, however, explained that he preferred to focus less on the act of starting and stopping and more on moving and turning. “That’s what’s actually going to get you safely down the mountain,” he said. For the next two hours, he barked at me to perform actions I’d hadn’t heard of throughout my fruitless research, such as “diet pizza,” which essentially meant twisting just one ski to glide in the direction I needed to go. It worked, but I was still unquestionably anxious.
As a complete adult novice, I was already fearful to learn how to ski. The act of slicing down a snowy mountain always felt terrifyingly out of reach. I grew up in Florida, where the only skiing took place either on the ocean or at a SeaWorld stunt spectacular. Snow sports were a completely foreign concept, something that only fancy folks did in the movies.
Because I hadn’t even touched snow until I was a preteen, let alone traversed it on anything more than a sled during holiday jaunts to Tennessee with my family, the potential for injury seemed high. I also couldn’t help but think about all those celebrity horror stories. Sonny Bono. Natasha Richardson. Gwyneth Paltrow. Now that I’m older, a broken bone — or worse — could have major repercussions.
Now, I don’t actually consider myself a scaredy-cat. I’d call myself a slightly adventurous couch potato. I’ve done yoga on a stand-up paddleboard in Hawaii floating next to a volcano. I performed a drag routine in front of my entire college. I’ve snorkeled and hunted invasive lionfish with a spear in the Bahamas. I’ve driven across Ireland alone on the left side of the road. (I never really got used to it, TBH.) I’ve eaten cow tongue stew at a Chinese restaurant. Yet the thought of skiing instilled more anxiety in me than any of those activities.
Still, I wanted to attempt it. For decades, learning how to ski remained petrified on my bucket list. For whatever reason — fear, work, complacency, finances — I never pursued it during vacations to chilly destinations like Switzerland or Colorado. When I hit my 40s, I started to feel like skiing would just never happen for me. Did I really want to be a middle-aged beginner on the bunny slope? Or would I be content simply hanging out back at the lodge waiting for my black diamond-level friends to return?
After a year of editing stories about fearless writers overcoming adversity to do stuff like surfing, boxing, and polar bear plunging, I decided it was finally time to lace up. Or whatever you’re supposed to do to keep those boots on your feet. I didn't really know until I pored over amateur training videos.
Now that I live on the West Coast, and especially because we’ve experienced record snowfall this winter, the Reno-Tahoe region felt like the perfect place to finally learn how to ski. When I inevitably fell on my face, it would be into pillowy-soft snow. If I was badly injured, home was just a few hours away. And I could drown any sorrows at Reno’s many bars. Or gamble in an entirely different way at Reno’s many casinos.
I’m not alone. Following pandemic shutdowns, according to data from the National Ski Areas Association, ski participation was back up to 10.5 million people for the 2020-21 season. More than 1 million of those were first-timers like me. However, skiing remains an extremely exclusive (and expensive) endeavor. There are about 135 million who regularly ski, accounting for only about 1.5 percent of the world’s population. After my experience, I’m uncertain if I want to join them.
My fearful anticipation led me to unnecessarily overeducate myself. On the bunny slope, I couldn’t truly enjoy those first sensations of skiing because I was constantly reminding my body to do the opposite of what I thought was right. (Thanks, YouTube.) After my instructor 86ed pizza and French fries from the menu, I realized I’d need to wipe my mind clear and learn how to navigate the slopes on his — not my, my pals’, or an algorithm’s — terms if I was to succeed.
Soon, I was getting the hang of it. More importantly, I wasn’t falling. I expected to plant it at least a few times during those first moments on skis, but it wasn’t happening. I thought I could see a sparkle in my instructor’s eyes through his ski goggles. “You’re a skier!” he exclaimed after I slalomed down the bunny slope without assistance. I crushed the left turns but struggled with the right ones. When I asked the instructor how I could improve, he didn’t provide much of an answer. “Some people,” he explained, “just favor one side.” It was a fact I hadn’t come across in my overpreparation.
After dominating the learning area, I graduated to a full-fledged trail, a scenic route accessible by lift that wound through some trees with a bit more elevation. I maneuvered down it without complications, a feat my instructor informed me was atypical. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t watching James Bond zipping down a mountain like in a 007 film or Lady Gaga fabulously whooshing around like in House of Gucci. I was the one skiing now. I’m a skier, I told myself.
With my newfound confidence, I ventured to Northstar California Resort the next day for a second round of skiing. This time, there would be no instructor to tell me to do diet pizza or stick my arms out like airplane wings. Unlike the chill vibes at Mt. Rose, this place more closely resembled the rollicking ski destinations I’d glimpsed in bawdy ski comedies of the 1980s on the USA Network.
After I’d gone down the easiest trail several times without falling, I felt ready for more of a challenge. I took the lift up to a trail called Main Street and merged into a rush of advanced skiers coming from farther up the mountain. I entered through a path marked with a giant yellow sign: “Easy Way Down.” There was nothing easy about what happened next. When I turned the corner, my confidence evaporated. The trail was wide and straight but much steeper than the pair of gentler trails I’d previously conquered.
At first, it was fine. I was going slow and steady, taking my time, weaving from side to side. But I started gaining speed at a level that made me feel out of control. I tried to diet pizza to slow myself down, but I was French frying so fast that I didn’t know what else to do but fall. I’d watched a lot of videos about how to properly fall, so it didn’t hurt too much when it happened. I stood up, brushed myself off, put my skis back on, and continued down the mountain.
A few minutes later, it happened again. Speed. Fear. Disorder. Bang. This time, I crashed harder and with much less authority. I was already exhausted from a day and a half of first-time skiing and felt more defeated by that second splat. At that point, I could see the lodge. Instead of putting my skis back on and going down the last few yards, I gave up. I hurled my skis over my shoulder and walked to the end, feeling unsure if I’d ever ski again. I didn’t hate it. I didn’t love it either. But at least learning to ski was no longer taking up precious space on my bucket list.
After departing the resort, I decompressed with a cocktail before seeking nighttime sustenance at the Reno Public Market, a former mall turned into a trendy new food hall. I browsed the vendors’ culinary offerings, ranging from crepes to tacos. In the distance, a sign called out: Bite Me. It kinda summed up my feelings about my final ski run in two words. From the cheekily named purveyor, I ordered a plate of loaded fries. If I couldn’t master French fries on the slopes, I could at least enjoy a plate of them for dinner.
Derrik J. Lang is Shondaland’s Lifestyle Editor. Follow him on Instagram at @derrikjlang.
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