As a weekend snowboard instructor at Big Bear Mountain Resort in California, I engage in advanced training a few times a year at Mammoth Mountain, a large resort deep in the Sierra Nevada. The terrain there is a stark contrast to what we have locally—higher, steeper, and far more challenging.
On my most recent trip, I found myself with five other trainees at the edge of what seemed to be a precipitous cliff.
"We need to regroup with the others at the lodge," Matt, our trainer, said—pointing to a cat track far below. "We'll meet down there. Let's go!"
One by one my fellow riders peeled off and pitched themselves over the side. One second they would stand balanced on their board at the edge of the drop, and the next they were over the edge. Gone. Swallowed by the slope.
Soon it was just me, alone with the mountain.
As I cautiously edged forward, I realized that the snow was far from untouched. It was a minefield of icy bumps, carved by the boards of previous—and clearly more advanced—riders.
I wasn't exhilarated.
I was afraid.
And annoyed that I was afraid since we had been practicing on the steeps all day, but it didn't seem to be getting any easier.
Everyone had made it down except me. I was the last one left, and the group's eyes were on me from below, their figures tiny but expectant.
I knew the technique: lean into the front of the board, steer with my knee, let the ankles flex and press into the mountainside.
But now I was embarrassed. I was on display, my hesitation a spectacle.
I breathed in. Breathed out. Somehow I let the board move forward, tip over the edge.
Suddenly I was cascading down the slope—sometimes in control, sometimes not. I might have been living in the moment, or I might have been so terrorized that I couldn't remember how I arrived at the bottom.
Matt's voice cut through the adrenaline. "You okay?"
I was shaking too much to risk an answer, so I only nodded.
"Nice work," he said. "Let's roll."
I hadn't exactly faced my fear, but somehow I had made my way through it.
