Sloan’s Lesson
Jackson Hole III

“This mountain is unlike any you have skied before.”

This sign greets skiers loading the Thunder lift two-thirds of the way up the mountain. At 9,000 feet, it accesses some of the most exciting terrain at Jackson Hole. Every skier at the bottom of that lift feels both humbled and motivated by the promise of a sublime experience.

I certainly had an experience unlike any before, but it wasn’t because of the Thunder lift. After Monday’s disastrous skiing, I was convinced that Jackson Hole was the anomaly of mountains in America. There was no way it could be this difficult anywhere else. Unfortunately, I was stuck in Jackson Hole, not Lake Tahoe or Steamboat Springs. Given no other choice, I hired an instructor to help combat the enemy before me. After renting a helmet, I was introduced to Sloan Andrews, veteran of JH for thirteen years. “So Elizabeth,” she said optimistically. “What are we doing today?”

I cringed and looked away, then listed the damages: Yesterday was the worst skiing day of my life and I fell on my head and the mountain was steep and my friends took the tram and I was stuck on the greens and I had never skied a mountain before and I hated Sundance and I just wanted to like skiing again.

Sloan laughed and reassured me that Tuesday would be a better day. “After all,” she said on the first lift. “Tommy Moe was just behind you in line.” I smiled, suddenly happy in Jackson Hole, where running into Olympic Gold Medalists was common.

Tuesday was a better day; it was my lucky day. Not only did I share a mountain with famous people (apparently Ted Nugent was also there), but I got one of the best instructors at Jackson Hole. Sloan was an excellent skier and recognized my mistakes immediately. More importantly, she recognized the fears behind that flawed skiing. She understood that I was scared of falling again and getting hurt again, scared of the place that had caused the pain, scared to face my fears alone. She had me follow in her tracks, stopping every couple of minutes for a new command or explanation. Disguised as technical advice, Sloan showed me how to defeat what was holding me back inside:

Do not ignore the simple tasks.
The first thing Sloan taught me was pole plants – tapping the ground with the pole just before initiating the turns. She explained that this seemingly useless task establishes rhythm and correct hand position. “Plus, you look like a real skier when you do it.” Immediately, skiing felt more effortless. Control, and survival, was suddenly easier.

Defense mechanisms often hurt more than they help.
I thought I knew how to keep myself from falling. On flat ground, I responded to an imbalance through natural instinct. Unconsciously, I used these same defense mechanisms on a slope. The result was total panic as my stomach dropped and my heart raced. Sloan showed me that I had to change my reactions to fit the environment or else I would end up on my back, skis strewn across the mountain. I had to re-learn how to balance myself because my thoughtless reactions were only hurting me.

Be patient.
I love moving fast and I hate moving slow. In life, I end up settling for mediocrity merely because I don’t want to wait. In skiing, I end up accelerating and losing control merely because I am too impatient to finish my turns. On the tiny slopes of Wisconsin, there isn’t enough space to reach dangerous speeds and there isn’t enough time to lose control. In Jackson Hole, where the runs are three-fourths of a mile long, speed control is imperative to survival. As I followed Sloan, I learned what it felt like to finish a turn. When we stopped, I looked up the mountain at the perfect arcs in the snow. They were a picture of patience, a picture of direction, a picture of power.

Challenge yourself. Reward yourself.
Sloan told me about her friend from the U.S. Paralympics Ski Team who moonlights as a motivational speaker. In his presentations, he stresses the importance of challenging and rewarding yourself every day. “You’re skiing double blue squares. Experts ski blue those,” Sloan said to me. “Even if you’re not skiing off the tram with your friends, you deserve to reward yourself.”

I took this last lesson as a source of confidence and motivation the rest of the week. Along with her other advice, Sloan helped me conquer those things that had conquered me. By Friday, March 17, I was skiing with friends, riding the gondola and Thunder lifts. On Friday, March 17, I dominated my very first enemy – the Sundance run – amazed at how painless it felt just five days later. And on Friday, March 17, I skied a black diamond at Jackson Hole, a sign that I had at last made friends with my enemies.

I loved Jackson Hole and I loved skiing.

A Case of the Mondays
Jackson Hole II

I wanted to go to Jackson Hole ever since Ben Bice mentioned the famous Hoofer’s trip. Last August, with gleaming eyes, he told of the skiing, the socializing, and the bus ride. Within minutes, he had me dreaming of the Tetons, and I was determined to get there. All season, I skied the Midwest but dreamed of a bigger playground. All season, I read Ski Magazine and studied technique books so I would be ready for Monday, March 13: the day I skied a real mountain for the first time.

That Monday, I told myself I would ski eagerly and confidently, that I would not be intimidated by the size of the mountain. Jesse and I watched Teton Village disappear as we rode the gondola to 9,095 feet above sea level. As we passed clusters of trees and freshly groomed trails, I was sure that my first run would be as exhilarating as I imagined. At the top of the lift, Jesse and I climbed off and headed towards the first blue square we found.

Within the first 100 feet, I fell three times.

In a matter of seconds, my big skiing dreams had shattered.

It was immediately clear that I still didn’t know what I was doing, despite my improvement over the year. My skis felt foreign beneath my feet. Every time I fell, I got a face-full of snow and my skis flew off in opposite directions. Within that first 100 feet, getting down the mountain suddenly seemed like the scariest thing I would ever do in my life. My abilities and instinct had abandoned me. It was like that mogul run from Cascade a few weeks earlier – I was embarrassed at having overestimated my talents. I was terrified at what happened and what could have happened.

Miraculously, I made it down the mountain and started over at the green circles (the bunny hills). I silently growled at the directionless three year-olds passing by me. I bitterly watched the gondola speed up the mountain, secretly wishing it would break down so I wouldn’t miss all the fun my friends were having. I glared at the invisible people inside the little red cars, jealous that they could do what I couldn’t, jealous that they could experience the thrill of skiing the greatest mountain in America.

At lunch, I sulked in front of the fire place and hardly spoke. Jayme laughed and said, “Looks like you have a case of the Mondays.” I didn’t respond – I was too exhausted from getting my ass kicked by the bully that was Jackson Hole.

By the end of the day, I finally tried the blue runs off the Apres-Vous lift (8,481 feet), but it was still challenging and I still wasn’t skiing correctly. On my last run of the day, I hit a bump. My skis slammed the ground beneath me, time slowed down, and everything went black. I summer-salted forward and my head hit the ground with a terrifying thud.

I opened my eyes and an older skier approached me with one of my skis. He asked if I was okay, but it felt like he was asking, “Are you crazy? You’re going to kill yourself!” I thanked the man and skied down the rest of the mountain in tears.

I hated Jackson Hole and I hated skiing.

My one year of skiing was a joke. I could not ski.

On Monday, March 13, I felt like all of Jackson Hole – the skiers, instructors, owners, and proud parents – were telling me that I did not belong in their world. Back at the motel, I rubbed my head and pouted. Other people on the trip buzzed about “the Tram” and “Thunder” and “Sublette” and “black diamonds” and “cliffs” and “back country.” They couldn’t get over how awesome it was to ski down 4,000 vertical feet. I was jealous of their fun and courage and abilities. I was jealous that I had fears and they did not.

Everything I came to love had let me down. I felt a pang of disappointment and embarrassment. I dreaded going back to the mountain, afraid of injuring my body – and ego – even more.

But I had no choice – it was only the end of the first day. I had to go back.

It turns out that I did not find the thrill and excitement I thought I would on Monday, March 13. Instead it was a day that would test the courage I had to pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again. The next day, I did indeed go back to the mountain. And as soon as I got there I signed up for the Jackson Hole Mountain Sports School.

The City
Jackson Hole I

Like a fake movie set, the Teton mountains first appeared white and blue, perfectly shaped against a mysterious gray sky. They were like the skyscrapers of Chicago or New York, just small peaks in the distant horizon, promising excitement and grandiosity.

I have always been a city girl, enthralled by high rises and narrow streets, traffic and trains. Visiting Chicago, I always felt that anywhere in the city, something exciting was about to happen. I never felt lonely in Chicago – I was comforted by the ever-present sirens and neon signs – constant reminders of life. I couldn’t imagine anywhere else that had that sense of electricity, connectedness, and importance.

I was convinced no other place like a city existed until I saw mountains for the first time. Four years ago, I spent a day on the French/Spanish border in the Pyrenees. Immediately, everything about them captured my attention, whether it was the wildflowers and wild horses, or the mysteriously placed lakes and rivers. The contrast of sharp mountain peaks and narrow valleys invigorated me. I remember my friend Henrike saying, “I can’t imagine that the people here are affected by the same things we are. This world is different. War and Hollywood don’t exist here.” Driving through tiny Spanish villages, I too wondered what it would be like to live in a place like that. Instead of feeling lonely and disconnected, I imagined it like a bustling city: being in the midst of the most enlivening forces in the world.

Just a week ago, the mountains inspired me once again as I traveled to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I watched the distant Tetons suddenly rise next to the bus, and soon felt a mysterious privilege – as though I was in a place few people would ever get to see. I felt free, on top of everything, as though I could see the whole world at once. I felt happy; I felt immortal. I wanted to move forever, between the depths of the valleys and the tops of the mountains. It felt like flying and I hadn’t even started skiing.

In the mountains, I found a city bigger than any human can build. It is a city where skyscrapers are snow covered and made of jagged rock; where sports cars and taxis move as streams and lakes; where neon marquees are the reflecting sun on the afternoon snow. The life of this city creates a sound louder than any car horn or fire engine. It is a city where the biggest thing in life is the exhilaration that fills your insides every time you look out the window.

It is a city that proves I will never be alone, a city that will always feel like the most exciting place in the entire world.

The Black Diamond Decision

Few people know the thrill of true spontaneity. Few people can jump without looking at the ground below. Few people can live without looking too far behind or too far forward. Having never before made a big decision on a moment’s notice, I am not one of those few.

At least, I wasn’t until I started skiing.

Before skiing, I never realized how scared I was to be uncomfortable. I rationalized my fears to try new things in the name of safety, time, mood, parents. I had too many answers when asked “why not?” Consequently, I missed out on exciting places and unforgettable people. Even though I dreamed of moving far from home, even though I dreamed of being a soccer star or a singing sensation, I passed up opportunities to see how far I could really go.

Looking back, I wouldn’t have made it to the World Cup or American Idol even if I had pushed myself more. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else as I am in Madison. Nevertheless, I see how different I feel when I don’t always say no.

Skiing was not the first time I started taking risks – coming to college in Madison was. But the sport does give me faith that this exciting lifestyle is here to stay. Challenges and risks are abundant in the skiing world, where one always makes decisions on a whim and never thinks too far ahead.

The first time I understood this was on my birthday, when I skied in Minnesota for the first time (www.aftonalps.com). At that point, I was still inexperienced so Afton was challenging. There were twice as many runs, it was twice as crowded, and it was twice as snowy. I spent most of the day on safe blue squares (intermediate), too afraid to challenge myself. The lift I used for my favorite blue run also served a black diamond run (most difficult). I’d pass the black wishing I could do it, trying to convince myself to be spontaneous. Every time, I talked myself out of it, saying I needed more practice. After skiing the run a dozen times, I got off the lift with the intention of skiing the blue once again. Instead, I asked myself “why not?” and before I let myself answer it, I made a sharp turn and started on the black diamond.

The run was hard. The trail was narrow, steep, bumpy, icy. I skidded and made jagged, messy turns. My heart raced and I was scared. But when I got to the bottom, I felt pure freedom for the first time. It was freedom from self-doubt, pessimism, anxiety, rationalization, disappointment.

These are exactly the thoughts that defined the person I used to be. And one of my biggest fears is that I will become that person once again. I’m scared of losing my confidence, of becoming depressed again, of not trying new things. The best way, maybe the only way, to combat these fears is to try what I’ve always stopped myself from doing before.

Now the opportunity to try something new has presented itself. In less than a week, I will interview to teach English in South Korea. In less than a month, I will sign a contract to go to the other side of the world for an entire year.

As I consider and reconsider, I go between excitement and absolute fear. I am scared of a culture and country I know little about, a place that is far from home. I am scared of being alone, missing my family and friends. I am even scared of missing the U.S.

It would be safe not to go. Much like the blue square fun, I could move along at a pleasant pace with a few pockets of excitement here and there. I could be creative, trying new ways to move on the hill, new ways to have fun close to home. No matter how I look at it, though, I would still be on the same hill, still in the same city. I would miss the chance to see the world, but more importantly, to see who I am and what I can do. While the fears I have are legitimate, they are not big enough to keep me from going.

It’s almost time to make the “black diamond decision.” Despite my fears, I know that going to Korea will be a thrill. I just better make the sharp turn for that path before I pass up the run of a lifetime.