Enjoying skiing in the icy cold? Not so much. Wearing cute ski outfits? For sure

I do not have the “sports gene” author David Epstein describes. I am a spectator. I hated PE beyond elementary school. But, when my husband-to-be told me how much he loved skiing, I acted interested in learning the sport—against my better judgment. I was 19 years old.

He took me to Herb Bauer’s on Blackstone Avenue and outfitted me with ski pants, sweater, jacket, hat, and gloves. He also rented boots and skis for me. I have to say, the lime green outfit looked good. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I thought to myself. And, I would see Yosemite for the first time.

The following weekend we drove to Badger Pass with my cousin and two friends. When we arrived, I sat in the car for 20 minutes to settle my stomach while the others waited. I had not anticipated motion sickness, though I should have known better. When I finally stepped out of the vehicle and into the frigid air, I knew this was not going to be fun.

My husband to-be took me on Bunny Hill for my first lesson. The rope-tow seemed less than sturdy, especially with children slipping and sliding all the way up. When I made it to the top, the kids surrounding me fearlessly shot down the hill while I snow plowed with much trepidation, fearing I would crash into them or worse, tumble unceremoniously downhill.

Eventually, I mastered snowplowing after plowing into the long line of kids and parents waiting for their turns on the tow rope. I pulled myself up, poking my poles into the snow as I had been taught, while my husband dodged kids on his way downhill to help me. Clearly, I was not showing much talent or grace in this sport.

After we married, my husband bought me new skis, a new silver-gray outfit, and took me skiing each winter until I thankfully became pregnant and opted out. On one of our trips we headed to Huntington Lake to ski at China Peak. The longest run, Academy, is 2.25 miles. My confidence had grown, so I headed straight to Academy with my cousin.

Up I went on the ski lift, holding tight, convincing myself I could ski off the chair without falling, which I did. I was still snow plowing, but I made it to the bottom of the hill with my cousin, my husband having gone off to bigger, more challenging hills. We decided to go up again.

It being later in the day, executing the jump off the ski lift onto icy snow would be a challenge, but I didn’t fall, not then, not until I had skied far enough from the lift that the operators were out of site. When I encountered the first slope, I slid down hill, abruptly landing on my bottom.

Each time I jabbed my ski poles into the snow to lift myself, I continued to slide. I had no choice but to walk downhill. I took off one ski, placed it sideways so it wouldn’t run away from me. When I turned to remove the other, I watched in disbelief as the ski travelled across the hill, over the edge of the mountain, and down into the valley below.

This trip was not going to end well. My cousin, who had stayed with me during this escapade, took off downhill to find my husband, neither of us realizing it was the last run of the day.

As I removed my other ski, preparing to walk the remaining two miles, the ski patrol swooshed in front of me and asked if I was hurt. “Only my pride,” I grimaced, pointing to where my ski had travelled.

“Can we practice with you?” one of the three asked.

“My cousin went for my husband. Shouldn’t I wait for him?”

They looked at each other before giving me the bad news. No one would be coming up. The lift had closed. So I agreed. Anything was better than walking two miles downhill on a slippery slope, lugging one ski over my shoulder.

They tucked me into the rescue toboggan and wrapped me with blankets. The decent was anything but gentle. I bounced down the hill — thump, thump, thump — my head slamming into the toboggan each time we hit a dip.

When we reached the bottom, they insisted on carrying me to the first aid center. “We need the practice,” they explained. I did not see my husband’s face when I reached the bottom, but my cousin tells me he turned white, thinking I had badly hurt myself. Fortunately, the incident did not end my skiing career because I am a trouper.

One memorable ski trip took us to Lake Tahoe with our good friends. On this trip, I took it slow and actually enjoyed myself. I felt confident riding the ski lift and even relaxed when the lift stopped at the very top, my feet dangling, light snowflakes landing on my cap and face.

On one of my rides up, two skiers on the ground waved and yelled “Mrs. Sahakian!” I waved back, later learning they were former Clovis High students who recognized me in the snack bar.

The trip to Tahoe was memorable, but I really do not like the cold. I do not like young skiers or snowboarders swishing around me. I still get motion sick driving to the mountains unless I am in the front seat. And falling is never fun.

But I have to say, the hot toddies in the lodge are most enjoyable. Also, I have bought several cute ski outfits over the years, my favorite item being the warm, furry after-ski boots that I now wear as “not going to ski” boots, sipping hot toddies in the lodge.