Ever since my twin sister and I first hit the ski slopes at age 5, our father made it a family tradition to stay at the Boreal Ski Resort in Nevada County, California at least six times a year. Although we enjoyed the activity at first, it soon became cumbersome for me and my sister. At a certain point, waking up at the crack of dawn, putting on uncomfortable ski clothing that made restroom trips inconvenient and spending the day in stuffy gear in the sun just didn’t appeal to us anymore.
And then there’s what happened one fateful winter in 2014, a day when 7-year-old me realized I was not cut out for any courage-testing winter athletic activity.
It was the yearly December trip, and it was a particularly chilly day for skiing, yet our father still rushed us out the door at 7 a.m., rejecting the concept of “taking a break.”
To add insult to injury, he decided it was the perfect day to take on the so-called 49ers slope — a trail rated at the Black Diamond level, the most advanced. On the way to the resort, my sister and I started having doubts. After all, we’d never skied down a Black Diamond before.
After struggling to step off the ski lift, we stared down at the vast landscape ahead of us. There was at least half a mile left before we even got to the slope, and I was struck with the realization that we would have to spend more time and energy waddling in the snow to get to the slope than actually skiing.
As we waddled, I felt the wind pick up, and it got increasingly difficult to see my father in front of me. The air soon filled with whirling snow, and it dawned on us that a major snowstorm had hit — essentially a blizzard was upon us. One layer of snow gear definitely wasn’t going to be enough to prevent the chill from freezing our bodies. My sister and I began to panic and tears streamed down our faces, fully convinced that we would be stranded in this seemingly hopeless situation.
Even my father, ever the optimistic, fearless problem-solver, was at a loss. My sister and I were inconsolable, so he resorted to practically pushing us when our legs refused to move. To make matters worse, my sister then stepped on a particularly soft patch of ice, causing her whole boot to plunge into the snow. We desperately tried to pull her leg out, but it would not budge. We then decided to lift her whole body up, so my father lifted her torso while I hoisted her legs upward. It took a bit of effort, but eventually her foot was free.
At that point, with snow flurries falling all around us, the cold weather was affecting my brain, making me delusional. I started hallucinating, seeing the ski lodge in front of me with my mother waving at me to come inside. It sounds silly, but I guess snow storms can really expand your imagination.
Finally giving up, my father dragged us over underneath the canopy of a nearby tree, resolving to remain there while the storm gradually weakened. My sister and my tears froze on our faces, giving us masks made of ice. I was practically half-conscious, but I stayed awake for the next few miserable hours that followed. It was as if we had waited for days. During those hours, I kept myself awake by dreaming of all the hot chocolate and warm pizza that I would gobble down as soon as we got back to the lodge.
When the blizzard finally started to clear up, my father lifted us to our feet and urged us toward the slope. Although I’m usually a careful and unhurried skier, I made it my goal to speed down the hill as fast as possible. I was the first one to finish, and I practically leaped into my mother’s arms like a victorious Olympian as soon as I caught sight of her, proudly rambling about the treacherous journey we had just returned from.
Despite my father’s complaints, my sister and I avoided skiing for a whole year after the blizzard incident. But looking back, I’m secretly glad it happened. Whenever we retell it, we bend over laughing — strengthening our family bond. And above all, I now always appreciate that the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of me isn’t just a snowstorm hallucination. It’s real and it’s delicious and it means I’m not stuck outside in a blizzard at 7,700 feet elevation.
