If You Love Someone…Never Teach Her to Ski

Learning from a partner leads to lessons of the heart.

By Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan

On a bluebird day last winter, perched somewhere between the bunny hill and the black diamonds at Vail, my inner misanthrope finally got the better of me. “I hate everyone,” I declared to my boyfriend, as missile-of-death skiers zoomed by us on all sides, oblivious and uncaring that this was my first real day on skis and that I was mere inches away from peeing my ski pants out of fright.

I managed to grit my teeth and snowplow off the mountain without stabbing any of these alpine enthusiasts with my pole, and my boyfriend called my outing a grand success. But I wasn’t so sure. Not only had my regard for humanity in general reached a new low, but I’d also been kind of mean to the sweet, encouraging guy who’d skipped a day of shredding to give me private lessons.

Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have been out there if not for him. I love playing in the snow, but hey, I’m from Illinois, where the “ski hills” are small landfills (no kidding) and the chances of getting impaled by someone else’s ski are virtually nil. I’d just never been a skier. But one of the cutest pictures hanging on my boyfriend’s parents’ wall shows him as a toddler, rocking a sweet pair of kiddie skis at Red River. He cut his teeth skiing. And if he loved it, and he wanted to teach me, then I was sure going to try.

Maybe I should have thought this through a little more carefully. This wasn’t just about skiing, of course. This was about my egalitarian relationship suddenly tipping out of balance. This was he, for the first time, assuming a position of authority over me. He would issue commands, and I would obey. On the one hand, yeah, it’s just skiing. But on the other, I would be totally dependent on him from the minute I stepped into my rental boots. On top of that, I should mention that I’ve never been great with the hapless beginner thing.

The day started off with promise. He took me up to the snow-school area at Vail, where, once I got over being humbled by the skills of 5-year-olds, I figured out the basics of turning and stopping. I even managed a green run or two. And he was an excellent teacher: nurturing, patient, and willing to overlook my aggravation at not nailing every move on the first try. But things started to get touchy when we approached a blue run.

“Are you sure?” I asked with pure skepticism, scoping out what seemed to be a much-too-steep run of terror ahead. “Of course,” he promised. “You can do it.”

Well, not really. My legs, aching from hours of unfamiliar machinations, were proving tricky to command. Unable to control my speed, I instead sliced long, awkward paths back and forth across the run, moving two feet forward for every 30 across. And then there were all those other damn skiers, whizzing by within millimeters (I swear!) of my mittens. Frustrated and shaky, I had to keep stopping to collect myself under the guise of adjusting my hat.

“You’re doing so well!” my boyfriendteacher said, expertly skiing over and beaming at me.

“I am not doing well. I suck. Stop telling me I’m doing well!” I snapped back at him, then pushed off into another awkward traverse.

Bless his heart, he didn’t even balk at my distemper. “Maybe we should head down and take a break,” he suggested sweetly. “Come on, let’s do a few more turns.”

We made it down the mountain together, him skiing ahead then turning around to coach me as I followed slowly. Part of me was still angry at this strange inequity between us—he was skiing backward, for God’s sake, maneuvering his skis with effortless grace. He was so good! And I was so very, very bad! But yes, part of me also realized I was being stupid. This was my first day on skis, after all (that Girl Scout trip to Mount Trashmore notwithstanding). I wasn’t supposed to be good, and he was doing his best to help me learn.

Despite the setbacks, we hit it up again the next day, this time at a kinder, less crowded mountain nearby. I struggled my way down a blue run several times, falling a lot but also (sort of) learning the parallel turn. And as the day passed and he continued to gently command— er, instruct—me, I realized that his alpine expertise did not suddenly make him my boss. He was still my awesome, supportive, equal-rights boyfriend. I wasn’t going to have to start doing his laundry when we got home.

Besides, near the end of the second day, as he was skiing in reverse and shouting kind words at me, he slammed into a tree, bonked his head, and tumbled over. I can always remind him of that if he ever gets too uppity.

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