Ski Adventure

A few weeks ago, we got an email that was sent to our whole student housing complex offering discounted ski tickets/lessons at a nearby Tahoe resort.  We jumped at the chance to do it.  Last year we'd tried to go skiing with friends, but the very morning that we tried to go, a blizzard caused all the roads to close.  We kept a store credit from the place we'd used to rent equipment and vowed to go before graduation.


When this offer came up, we jumped on it.  And yesterday was the day to go.  Leading up to yesterday, I was PETRIFIED to go skiing, for you see, I had never been before-- ever.  I was battling conflicting feelings of pure dread and mild excitement... do I really want to spend my precious, precious, precious Saturday doing something I might be completely terrible at?

Last time I felt this kind of dread this was my first week of summer cross country practice as a freshly minted high school freshman.  I realized that starting something from scratch at an older age can be really hard.  I don't consider 14 OLD, but I was certainly a novice runner (and a novice athlete in any sport, for that matter).  I quickly noticed that all the girls who had played AYSO soccer or swam on the Nova swim team since they were little kidlets had a HUGE leg up on me in running (lousy pun semi-intended).


As a 25 year old first time skier, I certainly didn't feel old.  But I knew a lot of my bus mates, including my husband, knew what to expect and could comfortably hop on a lift and coast down the mountain without the fear of going the way of Sonny Bono.


The only relatable experience I'd had to snow sports is that one time my senior year of high school when I went snowboarding for my first and only time at Mountain High in California over Christmas break.  I spent most of my time tumbling down the mountain on a thin layer of icy snow.  Not pretty.


I have felt massive amounts of regret that I lived in beautiful, snow-sports-friendly Utah for college and never once went skiing.  I find solace in remembering that my class and work schedule never allowed a skiing class (I did try every winter semester to fit one in but to no avail).  And, let's be honest, if I don't feel strongly about something, it's not really on my radar.
The bus ride out to the resort was four hours each way.  I prepared by getting an audiobook I've been wanting to read for a while now.

It did not disappoint.  I was laughing like an idiot to myself the entire way up and back.


We arrived, strapped on our boots, and I headed to my beginner class.  And I'm thrilled to say that I LOVED every moment of skiing.  I took a beginner class for an hour and a half, and didn't fall ONCE!  I met up with Harry after class and he did some bunny hills with me until we were starved for lunch.  And after we ate, we went right back to the slopes.

My hot ski date

I am in LOVE!  With skiing.  I would do this every winter forever if I could.  I had a blast.


I have also decided that there is nothing cuter on this earth than the three year olds on little baby skis.  I melted when I saw the little ski prodigies who whipped down the mountains, no poles, out-stripping me by a long shot, their expressions saying, "Yeah, no big deal."


After lunch, Harry said bamboozled me into thinking we should try some intermediate slopes.  He said I could handle it, no problem.  So we went.  Let's just say I survived it.  I didn't fall at all, but I was thinking "OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH!" the whole way down.


All day long I fell a total of two times!  TWO!  I was expecting something in the 30-40 range.

I loved the 8000 ft elevation clean mountain air-- so much that I began drinking it through a straw made of clouds (forced perspective, what what!).

Harry gets extremely motion-sick on long drives if he's not the driver, and as our bus lumbered up windy switchbacks, we knew we were both going to need to get some dramamine for the way home.  Harry took two, so when we got back to Stanford, he was in an ultra-drowsy, comatose-yet-awake sort of state, which was lots of fun for me.


As we plopped down in our car to head home from the bus drop off, I said, "Hey, we should snuggle up and watch a show when we get home if we're not too beat."  He nodded, and then in an exhausted voice that was edged with desperation, he cried, "I need my snugs, boo!"  Yes, I'm never letting him live that one down.


Oh, and we did squeeze in an In N Out burger.  Because how can you not?

Yesssss.