Snowboarding 101

It is a dream of a day to hit the slopes—January sunshine pouring down from a bright blue sky, comfortably crisp air, and powdery new snow generously covering the contours of Central Oregon’s Mt. Bachelor.

On such a day, I should be standing confidently at the top of a run somewhere, poised to take off down the mountain. I should be, but I’m not. I’m flat on my back, where I’ve been, on and off, for the better part of two hours. The snow is definitely not beneath my feet; it’s up my jacket, down my gloves, and underneath my ski pants.

As I struggle to my feet (this time remembering not to point the board downhill), I remind myself why I’m doing this. Last year, my 11-year-old son discovered a natural talent for snowboarding, while his dad polished up some long-dormant skiing skills. I half-heartedly took a couple of lessons, but mostly stayed in the lodge, reading a book and making sure the boys came in long enough to warm up. I struggled to understand as Riley used his plate of french fries to illustrate the finer points of riding switch, and listened uncomprehendingly as he rhapsodized over the joys of double-diamond runs. This winter, I had resolved to raise my skill level—not to mention my stature in my son’s eyes. Joining me is Riley’s sister, Cassidy, like her mom a complete novice at snow sports. We’re enrolled in Mt. Bachelor’s Easy Ski/Ride 1-2-3, an inexpensive three-day beginners’ package offered in some form by nine of Oregon’s mountains. For a modest fee, we get three days’ worth of equipment rentals, lift tickets and lessons. I’m going to need all of them.

Midway through our first two-hour lesson, Cassidy and I felt moderately confident on our boards, having mastered two important skills: skating, or pushing the board along flat areas with a free back foot; and sideslipping, riding sideways down a hill by pointing the toes—down to go, up to stop.

Conquering the Chairlift
Then came the moment both of us had been dreading—riding the chairlift. Our class was a mixed bag of eight students. At 17, my daughter was among the youngest; at 43, I was by far the oldest. The skill level, though, was the same for everyone – darn near nonexistent.

Our instructor, an engaging 20-something guy named Courtney, was endlessly patient as we all struggled to skate to the Sunshine Accelerator chairlift. The “accelerator” part sounded ominous, but Courtney carefully explained that the lift would slow way down when we got on and again when we got off.

Courtney, who volunteered to ride with me, kindly reviewed the basics of getting off the lift: turn sideways on the chair so the board is pointing straight, stand up with your weight on the front foot, put your unstrapped back foot in front of the rear binding, and glide until you’re in the clear. No sweat, Courtney assured me, as our chair approached the top of the bunny hill. Hah. I fell. In the chair behind me, my daughter fell. Her liftmate fell on top of her.

That night, Cassidy and I spent hours soaking our minor aches and pains in the jetted tubs at our Sunriver townhome rental, just 20 minutes from the mountain. After dinner, we entertained the rest of the family by cataloging our bruises and describing our more spectacular falls. “You guys are having fun, aren’t you?” my husband asked, interrupting my falling-off-the-chairlift story. Cassidy and I looked at each other. Yes, we were. We spent much of the next three days on the snow practicing our new skills. Riley even gave up an afternoon in one of the mountain’s four terrain parks to help his sister master the intricacies of the J-turn (turning uphill to stop).

And I eventually conquered the chairlift, courtesy of some personal coaching. The lift station attendant at the top of the beginners’ hill took pity on me one slow afternoon, and began to offer suggestions on my technique every time I fell (that is to say, every time I got off the lift).

“You have to stand up straight and put your weight on the front foot,” he counseled, standing over me. “Cruise straight down until you can turn.” After four or five tries, he moved the orange cones to give me more room to make the turn. The next time, I set my chin and my stance, and took off like I knew what I was doing. That one earned me a thumbs-up from the liftie shack, and the end of the advice.

Moment of Truth
But today—our second-to-last day here—I am facing my watershed moment. I can’t do a toeside turn. My heelside turns are a thing of beauty, but leaning forward on my toes and turning the board so I was facing upslope? It just feels so wrong. My instructors all gave me the same advice: Look where you want to go, relax your knees, and drive. Look, relax, drive—there was an allegory for life in there somewhere, but frankly, I’m too tired to find it.

Suddenly, I hear a yell from the chair lift overhead. “That’s my mom! Mom, you’re doing great!!” It was my son, riding the Sunshine Accelerator on his way to “grind the box,” a skill he had just acquired the day before, at Sunshine Park next door.

Bolstered by that very public encouragement, I took a deep breath. Throwing caution to the wind, I threw my body into a right-hand turn—and kept going. I turned left into a heelside turn, then smoothly right into another toeside turn, and so on down the hill. I was connecting my turns—the defining skill of snowboarding.

“That was sweet, Mom,” Riley said later that day as we prepared to pack it in. But the sweetest words came the next day from my daughter, as she and I lugged our boards back to the rental center. “I can’t believe you did better than me,” Cassidy kept repeating.