Skiing, just the word brings me back to the tall snowy mountains with the cold crisp air and coming down to the sizzling cocoa, speeding down the steep black diamonds.   But it wasn’t always like that. Before the skill came the anxiety and the face full of snow. It is hard to imagine that the elite skier was once that bad of a skier.

I stepped out of the car and faced the white-capped mountain. The cold crisp air blew at my face, whispering in my ear and blowing the wisps of my tied back hair all over the place, messing up my sleek ponytail. I walked to the lodge and read the sign “Maple Ski Ridge.” “Maya,” my mom called, snapping me out of the trance. “Come here and I will help you put your boots on." I walked over and watched the boots be strapped tightly onto my feet. I strapped on my plum purple jacket and pulled up my purple and white snow pants, and my mom stuck my helmet on my head, making me feel like a little bobblehead. 

I clung nervously to my mom. “I don’t want to ski,” I whined, “I am gonna fall!” 

“Even if you do you will get right back up and continue down the hill,” she insisted.

“Can I just go skiing with you?” I asked my parents.

“If you wanna ski up there,” my dad said, gesturing to a huge hill with a chair lift strung up the side. It was monstrous. My jaw dropped, and I put on my skis and walked to the bunny hill. It was supposed to be a little kids’ hill, but to me, it looked huge, staring at me, the trees casting an ominous shadow.  My mom signed me in, giving me more time to worry and more time to stare at this hill; as I watched, a kid fell and sprayed snow everywhere. That’s gonna be me, I thought.  I gulped down a scream. I did not know it then, but I was awaiting my unknown passion.

The ski instructor looked at me. He asked me my name. “Maya Grace Shoemaker,” I squeaked. He took our little group to the rope tow.  After what seemed like hours of the skis on my feet, crisscrossing and making me stumble back up the hill, I made it to the rope tow. I watched as he taught us to grab the rope and have it pull us all the way up the hill. I grabbed on, and with a sudden jolt, I was yanked up the hill.  Halfway up my ski popped off; I looked back and tried to reach it, but I was too far. I speculated on what to do, but before my little brain could figure it out I was at the top; I watched hesitantly, wondering if I should try to get it. My instructor grabbed it in the knick of time and delivered it back to me.  I fastened it on, and he taught us how to maneuver down the hill.

I tried to start but fell;  I could not even get up. I tried and tried again until he decided to help. “ Sit on your butt and move your skis to the side,” he boomed; I did and stood up. Halfway down the hill I finally started to get it until a little bulldozer smacked into my back, causing me to fall and slide down the hill. I was helped up at the bottom but sent the girl a death glare. “Let’s have a little break,” the instructor said. I was just a little too happy; we got some hot chocolate and then went back out.

“That was only like a five-minute break,” I argued.

“Yeah well, you are here to learn to ski,” he retaliated. We went back up the mountain so I could wipe out a couple more times, and I was completely used to the taste of snow since I had landed on my face so many times. I was cold and tired and bored. I remember telling my mom I would never do it again, but I showed up the next week, then the week after that, and even the week after that. After many more bruises and lessons and begging to skip, there were fewer bruises and more looking forward to skiing. 

I still can’t believe I didn’t want to ski. This memory was so important probably because now I can’t imagine not skiing. That first day there was anxiety, and now all I can think about in the summer, fall, and spring is how much I want to ski. I guess that’s how it is sometimes with passions; you never know you have one until you do it.

-Maya Shoemaker