Learning How To Ski - Part II

As previously mentioned, last Friday I journeyed to Whistler for my first day of skiing. Ever. What's it like to try skiing for the first time? Read on...

We arrived just as the sun was just peeking into the village. The sky overhead was clear, no clouds sullied the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Crowds were everywhere at the base of Whistler mountain. Scores of Aussie's filled the outdoor patio of the Longhorn, while the lineup for the gondola to the peak was wrapped in sinuous rows – everything eager with anticipation of first tracks.

Of course, the gondola line wasn't for me.

Mike, (another AlluraDirect employee his beginner ski lessons) and I debated where to stand in the crowd, while cradling our rented skis and poles. The guy behind the Whistler ski lessons desk had told us to stand "near the red flag" but the only red flag we could find had "Snowboarding School" emblazoned across it.

So we wandered around -- dressed in some high-quality ski gear from Whistler Winter Wear, trying our best to look lost.

Finally, we spied some smaller yellow flags that mentioned Ski school and approached a ski instructor. "We're here for the ski school," I told her.

"Okay what level?" she asked.

I wasn't sure if there was a category for "Complete Ski Virgin" so I just said, "Level I."

We were told to stay put and wait for the instructor assigned to us. Mike and I obliged. Moments later, another ski beginner arrived, looking just as bewildered as us. "Ski school?" he spoke in a thick Southern accent. We nodded, asked him where we was from.

"Well, I was in Vegas this week, but originally from Louisiana." Quite the trip, from the desert to the snowy mountains, I remarked. "I'm going sky diving next week," he added. "Only live once right?"

Mike and I, anticipating the unknown experiences we would have on our first day on the slopes, agreed.

Half an hour later, all 8 of us and our instructor "Maggie" (can't remember her real name) were packed into a our own gondola, riding up the mountain.

Each of us introduced ourselves: a woman from London, Ontario, a software company owner from Vancouver, our previous friend of Lousiana, and Maggie, who had been coming to Whistler mountain for over 20 years.

We unloaded at the mid-base and emerged into the brilliant white of the snow covered slopes. Maggie told us to lay our skis on the ground, and instructed us in the finer points of clicking in your ski boots. Each of us in turn succeeded, until me.

I placed my boot into the ski track and awaited the satisfying 'click.' No click came. In fact, the boot didn't appear to fit into the ski at all.

I asked Maggie about it, who immediately noticed the rental ski wasn't sized for my boots. "Are you sure these are yours?" she asked. I nodded. These skis hadn't been out of my sight since collecting them from the basement of the Whistler equipment rental shop.

Maggie asked everyone else if their skies fit properly. They did.

"I'm so sorry, but you'll have to go back to the rental shop and have them resize your skis," she explained.

My heart sunk. That would take, at minimum, 30-40 minutes to ride the gondola back down, walk to the rental shop, fix the skis, then ride back up. But it appeared I had no choice.