My First Time on Skis: A Magic Carpet Meltdown

Depending on when exactly this day occurred, I was either three or four years old, and my brother was four or five.

Too young to remember it myself, I called my Mom to ask about my first endeavor into the world of skiing. She remembers dropping the two of us off at ski school, thinking, "I'll see how they like it, and I'll go skiing for the day."

"Ben actually liked skiing, I think," she added. I recalled that my brother, who no longer skis, had enjoyed the sport for much of our childhood. "You were miserable," she told me, laughing, "You were completely miserable, and you had a particular loathing for the magic carpet."

It wasn't the magic carpet specifically that I hated, but rather that I had been relegated to it for the entire day. In my toddler brain, I had my skis and my boots and snow suit—there was no earthly reason that I shouldn't be allowed to go wherever I pleased on the mountain.

"You were quite opinionated about that and not very happy to have been left at ski school to ride the magic carpet all day," my Mom told me over the phone.

I wondered if my three or four-year-old self had actually been upset about being left by my Mom, whom I've always been close with (save for a few of my teenage years, which is to be expected).

When I asked what she thought, my Mom's answer was far more indicative of the person I am now than I could have imagined.

It wasn't the cold, the boots, or even the dreaded magic carpet that I hated. According to my Mom, it was the institutionalization of ski school that I was the least fond of. 
As someone who has long held disdain for authority of any kind, this made a lot of sense.

We agreed that I have never been much of a rule follower, and as moms often do, she had insights, that again, still prove true today. It wasn't only about not being allowed to do as I pleased, but there was something about being shoved into a group, and made to stand around and wait for everyone that, apparently, I hated.

"If I had been able to take you skiing or some adult you liked, you would've loved it," she said. She was right, as I didn't come to like skiing until later when she married my Step-Dad, who happened to be a ski instructor, and is still one of my favorite people to ski with today. 

"Look," she said, "You come from a long line of people who hated ski school." Her own first experience at ski school was similar, albeit it took place at Vail, not Telluride. It was snowing, it was cold, she kept falling off the T-Bar, and all she really wanted was the hot chocolate she'd been promised.

In an effort to remedy the trip, her Dad took her up to mid-mountain to get her to ski down, but she didn't actually know how to ski, so she walked down with him carrying her skis and crying until ski patrol came and gave them a ride down. 

Despite a rocky start with the sport, it goes without saying that things eventually turned around for me and skiing.

My Mom and I both recall that once I was old enough to go skiing with my friends, I fell in love with it.

Skiing gave me a way to connect with people. I enjoyed the people I was doing it with, which, maybe above my hatred for the magic carpet and disdain for institutionalization, is what holds most true today.

This piece is part of POWDER's Summer of Ski Nostalgia content series. Stay tuned in daily for more nostalgic articles, and keep an eye out for the upcoming Summer of Ski Nostalgia badge to identify future content.

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