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.