I am teaching my 7 year old grandson to ski. And, as is often the case with teaching, I am learning a few things myself. Things like patience and how to help him break tasks down into small simple steps and how to impress upon him the importance of not skiing straight into immovable objects. He is incredibly coachable — eager, interested, athletic, and full of desire to “do.” Two summers ago I helped him figure out how to ride a bike and marveled at his ability to take in information and then apply it. He’s also got grit. He falls and fails and stubbornly keeps trying.
Sitting next to me on the chairlift he struggles a bit with the safety bar, almost able to pull it down without help. Almost. He has thousands of questions and machine guns them at me without mercy, barely waiting for the answers. He gives voice to every thought in his head, every observation he makes. With Owen there is no quiet time to reflect. Silence is a void to be filled. He wants to go fast, aiming his skis straight down the hill. I insist on turns — lots of them. When he falls he works quickly to right himself, his little muscles straining to obey. His pace is urgent, like there is not a second to be wasted; we must get back up and go again and we must do it now. Let’s go, Nonie! He points his skis straight down the hill. More turns! I am hollering from behind as we make our way down the trail.
Rain does not deter him. He wants to go anyway. As I begin unloading the gear he fiddles with his poles and watches the skiers making their way down the hill, eager to get started. He suggests we could put our things on right here at the car and ski straight to the lift, annoyed by the time sucking intermediate step of carrying things to the lodge and changing from snow boots to ski boots. It’s not hard to match his enthusiasm. I too am excited by all the possibilities when it comes to outdoor winter fun.
The rain has let up and as the clouds lift, the view from the chairlift is spectacular. Turning around we can see open fields of Breadloaf campus, the valley stretched out beyond it, and the Adirondacks in the distance. I attempt to point it out to him, but he is far more interested in the ski patroller in the chair behind us. He says hi and asks him if he is an “ambulance person,” noticing the first aid sign on his jacket. Later he barrages the lift op with questions about how the mechanics work. It’s a slow day — only a handful of folks interested in skiing in the rain — so he indulges Owen’s questions, patiently explaining about the gears and inner workings of the lift. Owen fires question after question, this time listening fully to the answers until he suddenly remembers we have skiing to do. Off we go.
Hesitancy grows into confidence and he is carving turns now, mostly able to control his course and speed. The occasional lapse in focus results in a wipe out. He hollers that he’s okay, heaves himself up, and is off again.
On Sunday, we wake up to fresh powder. The afternoon moisture from the day before has settled into the trees and they are transformed into a magical winter freeze. We load up and as the chairlift carries us up the hill, Owen looks down at the skiers below. Look, Nonie, the skiers are making art! He’s right. Their tracks are beautiful and curvy and criss crossing each other in the open canvas of fresh fluff. The whole way up the mountain, he blasts questions and observations at me. I have learned to pick and choose my responses — most of the time he’ll bulldoze right through your answer with his next question, but the ones he really wants an answer for, he’ll pause and ask again if there’s no response.
By the fourth day he’s pulling the safety bar down and getting on and off the lift without my help. We are exploring all over the mountain. He’s been wanting to try the Cameron, but it’s usually occupied by racing gates and ski club racers who are training with their coaches. Today it’s open — no racers, no gates. Owen notices right away and he asks if we can “hit” that one. We navigate the top with caution. There are some icy patches, but good snow off to the side. He follows me, making careful turns and waiting for other skiers to pass. We get through the steepest pitch and hit a nice rhythm on the well-groomed snow all the way to the bottom. Back on the lift I tell him, Congratulations, buddy, you just skied your first black diamond. His eyes get big. I did? He looks up at the trail with a smile and I hear him say Yesss to himself under his breath.
We hop off the chair and glide down the ramp. I wait while one by one he slides his gloves through the pole straps and arranges them just right. He finishes, looks up at me just uselessly standing there, unmoving, and says Come on Nonie, let’s go! And we’re off again. As we start down the hill I hear him say — possibly to me, but maybe to no one in particular — Skiing is the most fun thing I’ve ever done in my whole life. I know how he feels.