The Skier’s Heart — More Fear Than Ice
Is a mogul-studded black diamond still the scariest thing on the ski hill?
--
In a typical season of skiing, fear of the slope is the biggest psychological challenge. Some stand atop a slope wondering how it came to this, fears front of mind. Others push those thoughts out of mind.
I came across someone hesitating over a steep icy section. “just push down, use your legs and you’ll be fine,” I said. The edges are there for a reason, after all. I took off — an attempt to demonstrate, perhaps instill confidence.
“The longer you think about it, the harder it is going to get,” I suggested to another. The doleful look I got in return chased me down the mountain. Quieting the voice that struggles to anticipate, to plan, is a skiing talent. It is hard to learn that you can react in the moment — probably it will be alright even if you can’t, at least on the open hill.
I passed a lesson, some very young skiers learning how to negotiate the VW Beetle-sized bumps. A girl, perhaps five, no taller than the moguls took a few uncertain turns and looked up at the teacher: “well, that didn’t get me anywhere,” she said. The teacher agreed. But she was learning the essential skill, and mastering her fear. And somewhere along the way this could transform into a life-long passion — we hope.
These folks were all learning the art of high-speed meditation. Skiing and psychology — never the twain shall meet in any other way! But alas, no more.
In the last two seasons, possibly more than anything else, I have felt the absence of the chairlift chat. It presents such wonderful glimpses into the life and experiences of others. And, similarly, the congregation of alpine tourers at stopping points — along the skin track, a desire line, to a predetermined, and often idyllic, stopping place.
At the end of the 2021 ski season, the COVID phobias were so complete that, as I left the ski hill one day, a couple arriving literally jumped off the opposite side of the approach road because I was unmasked. Their snide remarks wafted me back to the car on a current of confusion and distress. Even though I was downwind of them.
In the last few months, I’ve had the opportunity to ride the singles line, or find myself on the lift with strangers. I’ve encountered a range of sociability, from near-gregariousness to mutism. In general, perhaps, not so different from ever. But there also seems to be a correlation between these attitudes and age.
There are a number of plausible excuses. Young people are more likely to ride with music in their ears, a relative impossibility in my youth. Two people riding together are likely to want to talk amongst themselves.
“Good skiing,” I shouted for the second time at a fellow rider on a double chair. He removed his earbuds. And, indeed, turned out to be a pleasant and engaging member of a local college ski team. But an exchange of pleasantries and intelligence about where to find good snow wasn’t high priority for him.
Joined by a couple at the top of a favorite touring spot, I laughed about how effectively my thermos keeps coffee warm. It was an attempt to open a door, amongst tourers — admittedly, not always forthcoming people. They laughed politely, but don’t engage while I wondered if I had something on my face.
We gravitate to what is normal, and tend to operate from a comfort zone. There’s a lot to like about the comfort zone. It is comfortable. But I am wary of the boundaries our new normal encourages. These ways of being on the chairlift, on the skin track, on the way to the trail; they dissuade interactions with strangers and keep us apart. Is it okay to ride a chairlift with someone when you don’t know what they’ve been up to for the last two weeks — or their vaccination status?
I rode a chairlift with a man from Florida. He had taken his family skiing ever since his son was young, teaching himself to snowboard in the process. Simultaneously, I had to express my admiration and couldn’t help wonder whether our politics might differ, with a kind of fear I’m ashamed to say, but we connected all the same.
On my last run of the day, I skied out of my ski. I lay on the snow wondering why I didn’t take my own advice and skip “the last run of the day,” and how long it was going to take me to retrieve my own ski. A woman, older than me, kindly stoped and brought it down the hill to me. “It is about to get real goofy out here,” I remarked with my heart-felt thanks. She skied away laughing.
The usual ski-related fears, and the new social anxieties make me wonder about my own isolation. Has it gone too far?
It has evidently been found that people who grow up in mountainous places are more antisocial than flatlanders. But antisocial doesn’t mean you don’t talk to people, or that you hide from people. It’s a more nuanced concept than that. And, indeed, this study suggests that mountain people are more likely to seek out novel experiences.
But there is hope. Pond skimming returned to Smuggler’s Notch Resort this spring after a two-year absence. These many people gathering slope-side to enjoy an important spring skiing tradition might be just what is called for to interrupt my analogy — perhaps people aren’t impassable moguls or sheets of glare ice after all.
Skiing brings out the best in us — at least, in me — in a lot of ways. I love getting to know skiers, even if only for a moment. And a little antisocial risk-taking seems like just what we need right now. It might be a little too soon, but then that defines the risk — doesn’t it?
You just read another post from In Fitness And In Health: a health and fitness community dedicated to sharing knowledge, lessons, and suggestions to living happier, healthier lives.
If you’d like to join our newsletter and receive more stories like this one, tap here.
