Moose Mountain

Since I grew up in Alaska, participating in winter sports was something that was considered mandatory. Skiing, sledding, snowboarding and freezing to death were all considered acceptable forms of participation. If you didn’t, you were treated like an infectious disease to be avoided at all costs. Unfortunately for me, I was not a coordinated child and I was lucky if I could walk across a flat stable surface without tripping or catching on fire.

My father was an excellent athlete, and he made it his personal mission to get me involved in Alaska’s beloved pastimes. Out of his caring love and concern, he wanted me to be well adjusted. Also, I’m sure he wanted to avoid having to mercy kill me just in case the other townspeople noticed my inability to cooperate with snow.

So one day, my father decided that he would take me to Moose Mountain and get me into a pair of skis. I had been to Moose Mountain before and loved it, but my usual activities there involved staying in the lobby the entire time, drinking hot chocolate and not tripping over my own two feet (or spontaneously combusting, for that matter.) What my father didn’t know was that this single act of parental encouragement would result in my lifetime fear of physical activity.

Dad: Hey, let’s go to Moose Mountain! I’m going to teach you how to ski like a pro!

Me: Yay!

The entire car trip there, I was so excited because I thought I was genuinely going to learn how to ski like a pro by the end of the day. In my mind was a beautiful montage of the two of us gliding effortlessly down jagged mountainsides and hi-fiving bears.

It wasn’t until we reached our destination that I remembered how steep and scary the hillside was, and my anxiety started to kick in. We rented the skis and boots, and started out on the bunny hill for little kids to get my confidence up.

After a couple hours of building up my esteem, my dad decided that I was ready to try skiing on an actual slope. My childlike eagerness to win his approval was at an all time high, and I was pretty excited to high-five a bear in the process. My dad let me pick out which slope I wanted to try, so I looked at the map and picked out a slope that was labeled with a pretty diamond.

That was a terrible choice.

Apparently in the skiing world, the most difficult slopes are labeled with diamonds, while the easier slopes are labeled with circles and squares. I did not know this. I simply followed my liking for slightly more complex geometric shapes, and did not bother to look at the explanations on the bottom of the map.

My dad knew that this was a more difficult slope, but he thought it would be okay since he was going with me and would be able to help me if I had any trouble. He guided me to the slope I picked out, and we stopped right as we reached the entry point.

I still remember my overwhelming excitement at that point to have a memorable montage, and “Eye of the Tiger” was playing in my head. But as I looked down at the slope, I noticed there were several large rocks and some jumps that weren’t on the map. My anxiety jumped up to code red and I refused to go.

My father, being the loving and gentle man that he is, saw an opportunity to put his encouragement skills to work. He and I still have some dispute over how the following method of encouragement played out, so I will present both sides of the story and let you decide.

His Version:

My Version:

Regardless of how my descent on the slope began, I actually started out doing pretty well. I was going at a respectable pace while incorporating the right footwork with the skis. I was doing so well that I was truly proud of myself, and thought a moment of self congratulation was deserved.

Since I was only about 8 or 9 years old, I didn’t have the experience to know when an appropriate time was for congratulating one’s self. I learned pretty quickly that I should have waited until I reached the bottom.

Because now, I was going to reach the bottom really, really fast.

And miss my montage.

And possibly die.

I suddenly picked up a lot of speed, and I was going so fast that I completely lost control of the situation. I could no longer steer myself away from the obstacles, let alone see them as I blew past them. I was no longer a part of myself – I disconnected from my body and became part of the wind. It was my deepest desire to survive, so I focused on making it to the bottom in one piece. I thought if I just kept myself standing straight and going in one direction, that I would make it okay. I forgot to take into consideration that if I could not successfully walk across a flat stable surface, that I would probably not make it down the ruthless, savage hillside.

Nature reminded me.

I was catapulted into the air. All of my organs disconnected from gravity and I had no idea which way was up.

Then I hit the ground.

I was tumbling down the hill like a giant snowball, accumulating snow and debris. Innocent pedestrians were dodging my trail of destruction.

And then it ended. I laid there motionless as my lungs and self-esteem deflated.

My dad had been trying to catch up with me the entire time, going as quickly as he could on his mono-board. He made it to my crash site just in time to watch the rest of my pride leave my body. Onlookers questioned if I was still alive.

Dad: Let’s go home.

Me: Okay.

I never went back to Moose Mountain again.