Snowboarding--It's the Easiest Thing

I'm not sure who thought it would be a good idea to invent a sport in which you descend--sideways--down a snow-covered mountain with your feet locked onto a plastic board. But a few days ago, Tiffany and I decided it would be a good idea to try the aforementioned sport again.

Despite not having snowboarded in six years, my biggest fear was getting on and off the chair lifts. Forget personal safety. I did not want the lift stopped on my behalf while others waited to reach the top of the mountain and I struggled to dismount from a chair.

"Should we rent helmets?" Tiffany asked as we packed our things the night before.

"Helmets?" I asked. "I never wore a helmet."

"Everyone wears helmets now," she said. "I checked people's Facebook pictures."

"I'm not worried about my head," I said. "I don't plan on going fast enough to hurt it. How do you get on the lift again?"

Tiffany laughed.

"It's the easiest thing!" she said. "Just sit down."

I wasn't so sure. When I learned to ski at the age of seven or eight, I spent half a day by myself in ski school while my mom, dad and brother hit the slopes. When they got back, I knew how to snowplow and how to get on and off a lift. Then, as we waited in line to go up for my first time, my dad suggested another way to get on the lift.

"That's not how I learned it," I said, with furrowed brow.

"That's okay," he said. "It's the easiest thing."

Well. I'll skip to the end of this sad tale. The operator had to stop the lift because I--in a panic--could not decide which technique to use and so used neither, teetering on the edge of the seat for a few heart-stopping seconds before tumbling into a pile of powder below. In several more years of skiing, I never forgave my father.

In Tahoe, at the age of 29, getting on the lift really was simple once I dragged myself to the "Board Here" line. But getting off was not, mostly because I am The World's Worst Snowboarder. Before our Tahoe trip, I had only ever snowboarded once. That is, a single day six years earlier. To make matters worse, I was facing the wrong direction. When I rented my board, I couldn't remember whether I was regular or "goofy." I chose regular (left foot forward) and was totally wrong.

"Maybe we should put the bar down," Tiffany said as we glided up the mountain on the lift the first time. Thankfully, we had a chair to ourselves.

"Okay," I said, nervously. But about halfway up the lift, I put the bar back up.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Getting ready to get off!" I cried.

"Just point your board straight ahead," the teenager running the lift said as our chair slowed near the top. I wanted to slap his face, but, as it was, I pointed my board straight ahead and pushed off the chair with my hands. Tiffany and I immediately collided and, desperate to make it a safe distance from the lift, clung to each other, leaning forward to keep our momentum. After a few inches, Tiffany fell. I wobbled, nearly kept my balance and then sat down on her head.

Then--it was the easiest thing--I pushed off Tiffany's face with my mittens and, clawing at the snow, scooted away another couple of feet.

"Phew," I said. "We made it."

And we had. Tiffany was still crumpled in a heap, laughing so hard her Gore-tex-clad body was shaking, but that lift kept right on running.