Me, 4, on cross-country skis at my grandparents’ farm. I don’t remember being on skis then, so it obviously was not a traumatic experience. Photo courtesy of the writer.
By Grace Grogan
My last Christmas at home, my parents gave me a set of cross-country skis. Trying them out in the driveway, I found them easy to maneuver with little practice. My friend Ron and I were headed to his parents’ home for a week. What better place to give them a test than snow-covered northern Michigan?
Ron downhill skied, so we went to Boyne Highlands for the day. He purchased a lift ticket for himself and a cross-country ticket for me. The woman selling tickets said mine included the snow-covered golf course and a “nice, easy run through the woods” accessed by a ski lift.
I had never been to a ski resort, so Ron explained that the lifts shut down at 4:30 p.m., and he would meet me at the lodge then. Looking forward to an enjoyable afternoon, I headed toward the golf course on my skis.
Eventually, I mastered the technique, but the wide-open golf course with no one around was boring. I thought I might as well get the full benefit of my ticket. Confident of my abilities and looking forward to that easy run through the woods, I skied back to the lodge.
Call me stupid, but in my 20-year-old brain the idea of taking a ski lift to an easy run did not compute as a suicide mission for an inexperienced skier. My first important instruction came from the girl riding the ski lift with me.
“You’ve never been on a ski lift before? Listen quickly, and do exactly what I say!”
I had no idea that the lift doesn’t stop to let you off, like they do at Disney. I had to put my feet down quickly, stand up, push off and get the heck out of the way for the next set of skiers. Thanks to a stranger, I maneuvered the technique successfully without making a fool of myself. She pointed me in the direction of the cross-country run, and we parted ways.
The trail went through woods, and tall trees on both sides provided a nice winter landscape. I set off full of confidence and looking forward to navigating this easy trail. I quickly learned that “easy” is a matter of perspective. I soon found myself rapidly gaining speed. Ahead was a curve, trees and a drop off. My first thought was—I don’t know how to stop! Oh, great. Woman skier plummets to her death first time out.
Thinking fast, I threw myself down on the ground to stop my descent. Success! I was still on the trail and alive. Standing up, I brushed myself off and started again. I plummeted forward with another curve, trees and drop-off ahead. Again, I dropped, stopped and brushed off … and began once more.
The entire trail is a downhill run curving through trees with drop-offs at each turn. What is easy about this? On a positive note, I mastered the timing of throwing myself down so that I gained the most distance without getting too close to the edge.
Boy, was I happy when I saw a man expertly skiing down the hill behind me. I called out, “How do you turn on these things?”
“Just like downhills,” he replied as he disappeared down the hill.
Gee thanks, buddy. If only I knew how to downhill!
Finally, two girls my age were coming down the hill.
“Please help me,” I implored. “I have never been on skis before, and I have no idea how to slow down, stop or turn.”
They gave me some instructions, then headed downhill. My progress was easier after that, still about the speed of a turtle, but at least I could stay on my feet. I rounded a corner, and the two girls were walking uphill toward me, their skis on their shoulders.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We were scared for us, so we knew we had to come back for you.”
Oh, great. Just when I was gaining confidence, I learned it was going to get worse.
With one gal in front of me and one behind, we skied our way down the hill. It was a slow procession, and dusk was falling over the heavily wooded trail. Observing our dilemma, the leader announced, “If we don’t reach the end of the trail soon, we’re going to remove our skis and hike out.”
That would seem like defeat but better than trying to navigate this trail in complete darkness. We pushed forward, all breathing a sigh of relief when we emerged from the tree tunnel, the lodge in the distance. A snowmobile came zooming up.
“Are you Gracie?”
“Yes”
“I’m with ski patrol; your boyfriend requested we look for you. Do you want a ride back to the lodge?”
“No! I made it this far. I’m not giving up now.”
“Okay, I’ll let him know we found you,” he replied, then headed back toward the lodge.
As we neared the lodge I could see Ron walking toward me, so I turned to thank the girls for their help, then looked back at Ron.
“Did you send out the ski patrol for me?”
Ron couldn’t find me when the lifts closed at 4:30 p.m. Ski patrol doesn’t go out until 6 p.m., but he told them I was alone and had never been on skis. They agreed to search early.
Although I learned the basic technique for cross-country skiing, I think that easy run killed the appeal for me. I never put my feet on skis again.
Grace Grogan is a freelance writer and native of Michigan who lives and travels full time in a motor home.
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