The below is a story shared by Lizi McLoughlin, one of our climbing mentors. Thank you Lizi for sharing something so many of us relate so deeply to.
Enjoy!
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The silence is so complete it is deafening. I know that somewhere, probably no more than 100m away, my friends are waiting. But all I can see is trees. They climb so high they all but block out the sky, and glancing around me it’s hard to believe there’s any track out at all. A breeze unsettles the snow on a branch far above me, and great clumps of wet powder come cascading down around me. It’s beautiful, and I’m terrified.
I’m somewhere outside the ski area boundary, chasing desperately behind my more experienced, more confident friends. Every time I catch up, they’re off again, understandably impatient with my overcautiousness. For what feels like the millionth time, they’ve plunged headlong into the trees and I’ve got myself stuck, paralysed by my fear of getting trapped in a tree well. I shout, knowing perfectly well they won’t hear me, and I won’t hear any reply. Then I start to swear. I’m angry – at my lack of ability, and guts; at my new friends who are having so much more fun than me; at the stupid trees.
But 20 seconds later, I resign myself to point my skis down the only possible track, and slowly, nervously begin to navigate my way through the forest, still swearing quietly. Before long I emerge, lacking any grace or style, back onto the safety of the ski slope. My friends are there, impatient but entertained. A quick blast down a groomer delivers us to the bar, where we agree over nachos and beer that that was definitely not the run we were looking for.
Huddled round the table, looking and smelling awful, the fear is all forgotten.The number of times I fell is forgotten, along with the burning in my thighs, and the worry that I’d aggravated an old injury. I look around at my friends. We had only just met, and most were far more experienced than me. But that day alone, my new-found friends had coaxed me through steep powder, terrible visibility and out of those bloody trees. Over the next few months they’d harangue me until I jumped off cornices, dropped down chutes, and tentatively attempted to spin around in mid-air.
Back in the bar, I can still feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. It’s reminding me that that was the hardest day of skiing I’d ever done. To be honest I’m buzzing, consumed by that matchless feeling of achieving something you didn’t think you could achieve. The excitement is infectious, and everyone is talking quickly and too much. I can’t remember a word of the conversation – it was almost certainly about nothing much. It doesn’t matter though, because we’re all riding the high of the first powder day of the season.
There’s a palpable sense of anticipation around the table. We’re aware that this is only the beginning. We’re hungry, greedy for more. Scared that we might not get it. Everyone is wound up tight, you can feel the tension in the air. We’re not settled yet. Friendships have to be formed, the piste map has to be learned and then discarded, favourite lines and lifts have to be discovered. There will be plenty more pain, plenty more cold, fear and swear words screamed at the sky.
Then there will be the runs. There will be falling miles down perfect powder bowls. There will be tight, gnarly trees practised over and over until they can be traversed with something resembling competence. There will be steep mogul fields navigated in a blanket of fog, and rocks that appear from nowhere under your feet. Fast, smooth corduroy and deep, fresh powder. Bitingly cold wind and sheer ice. Bluebird days and wet, heavy snow.
Then there will be endless turns, always striving to make the next one a little better than the last. Weight forward, don’t sit back, hands in front, shoulders down the slope. Turn, turn, turn. Push through the fear, follow their line. Chase and chase and chase until you’re better than you ever imagined, and yet have more to learn that you could have ever known. Be brave, be focused, be a little bit reckless. And laugh, always laugh.
