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I Thought I Would Die Skiing
How I conquered my fear on a black diamond
Petrified, I stood at the top of the hill, squinting in the bright sun. Hard packed snow dropped off in a straight J-curve in front of me, and I backed up in terror. I was going to die.
In high school I went on a yearly ski trip with my youth group. We didn’t go to real mountains, just small skiing facilities in central Michigan or Wisconsin. Most of the places were exactly what you can imagine for Midwest ski destinations: a barely-there bunny hill, a half-dozen medium slopes, and a single black diamond drop-off.
This particular year, the easy hills were beyond boring — and after less than an hour I was boarding the lift for the black diamond. The ride wasn’t long, and once at the top, I skied around the small shack to the edge of the slope.
As I slowly trundled over to the edge, shock stopped me cold. It was almost a straight-down drop-off of glistening packed snow. Think cliff. I stood, considering.
I was alone.
No one would know if I turned around and begged my way back onto the lift for a ride back down to the lodge. Not wanting to break a leg or bust my skull was nothing to be ashamed of. My heart beat faster, and inside my wet gloves, my palms sweat bullets. I wasn’t a bad skier, but one ski…
