City Girl Survives Second Honeymoon in Wild Winter West

I hadn’t realized how afraid I was until that first ski-lift zoomed behind and lifted us up. Our legs dangled off a bench in the wild, winter air. There was no going back.

 

We sped onward and upward, snowy treetops passing. “It’s beautiful,” I said to the older couple next to us. “I just hope I don’t die. Or cry.” I half-laughed, and they assured me it was a great beginner hill and advised us to go left when we got to the top—which was fast approaching. My breathing quickened.

 

And suddenly, we were there. I dropped off the lift, skis thudding onto snow, and sped forward. “Whoa!”

 

The little hilltop evened out, and I turned with my husband to look left.

 

Only I couldn’t see a path. I couldn’t even see over the hill! Everywhere looked like a steep drop off. Tears threatened.

 

“I don’t think I can do this.” My voice rose, holding in a freak-out.

 

“Yes, you can,” my husband said. “Look how pretty it is up here. Come over here.” He skied to the edge. “Just look.”

 

I crept toward him, making sure my skis didn’t plummet me to my death, hoping for a friendlier view up close.

 

Oh. Capital. NO. This was supposed to be a GREEN—the easiest one! The one for kids and babies! Why was the hill so steep? I choked back a sob.

 

A group of people skied down. Then another. And another.

 

My husband suggested we take a picture, because he wasn’t sure I’d come back up a second time. Good idea. I did NOT see myself coming back up here. He raised his arm to snap the pic. I showed my true feelings. NOT HAPPY!!! See?

 

 

I confessed and suggested another picture. This time I thought about my love for my husband and being out in God’s beautiful creation.

 

 

Much better, huh?

 

 

Time to face the hill. Several groups of people swished down the hill—kids included. If they could do it, maybe I could. Lord, help me. My husband reviewed the basics and pointed out that the hill leveled at the bottom. If I could make it that far, I’d be okay and stop naturally.

 

I scooted to the edge, pointed my ski tips together, and bent my knees. Just a couple inches forward…

 

Gone.

 

The mountain slipped from under me, and I careened, a screaming torpedo trying to slow but only increasing. “I’M OUT OF CONTROL I CAN’T SLOW DOWN!!!”

 

Boomf. Thrash. Pound. Skid. I completely wiped-out, head bouncing against the hill, cold, wet snow on my face and up my back.

 

My husband skied next to me, and I jabbed words at him. “That was way too scary!” “You shouldn’t have rushed me onto the lift!” “I should’ve pressured you to practice with me more!” I cried a little, face wet with snow and tears.

 

A lady glided by, hollering, “That was a gnarly fall!” As if she was giving me a compliment. Somehow, it helped.

 

“Do I look like a raccoon?” My husband looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement and said some nice things. I laughed at the mental image of me screaming down the mountain like a crazy woman and said some nice things back. (It wasn’t his fault I went along so easily without enough practice. I just got emotional. Can you relate?)

 

I got back up. The worst of the hill was behind me.

 

My patient husband, who loves skiing, spent the next hour coaching me down the mountain without one complaint. We finally made it.

 

VICTORY!!!

 

We kissed and rested. Then my husband enjoyed a couple runs by himself while I savored one of the best bowls of beef stew in the west.

 

Then came the true test. Would I go again?

 

The lifts were about to close. My husband could ski one more run himself, or I could go with him. He didn’t care one bit what I chose. That’s one of the things I love about him—he doesn’t care how tough I am; he just loves me. But… something in me did care.

 

“I want to do it,” I said. “Let’s go quick before I change my mind.”

 

And so we did. We were the second-to-last chair up the mountain and the last ones down. But instead of an hour, it was a beautiful fifteen minutes of shush-shushing down the magnificent mountain before sunset.

 

It was glorious.

 

Maybe I should have practiced more before I went to the top that first time. But then again, I might have been just as scared. With many things in life…there’s no getting around that first hill. You just have to take the plunge.

 

With Love,

Jenny

 

PS. I chose to share this moment of our trip because it was the part that cracked me up, and I thought you might enjoy it. Who wants to read about all that wonderful, boring, sappy stuff? 😉

 

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