Where: Vail, Colorado
When: January 30 - February 3, 2015
With: Dave, Jenna, Alexis
Skiing and I have had a very interesting relationship with each other. While I love the concept of skiing and am always up for a trip, I am also slightly terrified of it. When I was about twelve, I took some lessons on the tiny-shouldn't-even-call-it-a-mountain Doe Mountain in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania, and it was quite a series of unfortunate events.
First, I met a friend at the lodge pre-lessons who insisted I'd be fine if we went up together before anyone ever taught me anything. She showed me how to swish-swish and said I'd be fine. After taking the chair lift up (a promising sign that I worked out how to get on that on my own), we learned the greens were all closed and only blue runs were open. The blue we chose happened to face the lodge for all to see. All my parents saw was the small dot that was their daughter tumbling down the face of the mountain.
Second, after this fiasco, the instructors lined all the ski school kids up and asked us to swish-swish for a couple seconds. I did as I was told and was put in a group of intermediate skiers. Why no one asked whether I'd ever skied before, I don't know. But before I knew it, I was again at the top of the mountain being asked to do things I didn't understand. I raised my hand to ask what they had meant, the instructors exchanged confused glances, and I clarified that I've never skied before. Panic ensued, I had one-on-one help down the mountain, and then it was agreed that I, a 12-year-old girl, would be put in the most age-appropriate, but skill-appropriate, group. The blend landed me with the advanced beginner 6-year-old boys. Any more basic and I'd be with the 3-year-olds.
Finally, of the three separate lessons I had, two of them ended with me flying off the trail into the forest. The first time mostly just had me whipping past many small trees and was probably more scary than painful. However, the second time had me fly off a run only to be stopped by a large pine tree. As I lay in the snow after smacking into it, I had my first experience of questioning whether I was actually dead. When I realized I wasn't, I was then convinced I'd broken my arm. I luckily didn't though the bruise lasted for months. And I never could get the pine needles out from the lining of my jacket.
A long story to explain my initial thoughts on skiing. From there on out, my ski experiences seemed to oscillate between good and bad. I had a fun trip in high school with friends to Killington, followed by a stressful experience in college to Stowe with an ex-boyfriend that expected way more out of my skill set. And finally, a strange experience inside a mall in Dubai with Dave where, while he chuckled at my fear of the tiny indoor run, he was patient and helpful in getting me to overcome my fears.
So flash forward to our trip to Vail, almost 12 years since my last ski trip on an actual mountain (sorry Dubai, you do not count). While the Dubai experience did help quell some of my worries, there was still a lot to overcome. However, it would be my first time skiing "out west" and I was excited to see what this powder was all about.
The flight to Denver was easy, and we got in late, so we stayed overnight before meeting up with Jenna and her friend Alexis to drive the two hours out to Vail. Thankfully, the weather was beautiful (as I've heard it can be a tough drive in the snow), and we arrived by mid-morning. We checked in to our apartment, donned our ski jackets, and ended up at a ski shop owned by a friend of Jenna's friend.
When: January 30 - February 3, 2015
With: Dave, Jenna, Alexis
Skiing and I have had a very interesting relationship with each other. While I love the concept of skiing and am always up for a trip, I am also slightly terrified of it. When I was about twelve, I took some lessons on the tiny-shouldn't-even-call-it-a-mountain Doe Mountain in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania, and it was quite a series of unfortunate events.
First, I met a friend at the lodge pre-lessons who insisted I'd be fine if we went up together before anyone ever taught me anything. She showed me how to swish-swish and said I'd be fine. After taking the chair lift up (a promising sign that I worked out how to get on that on my own), we learned the greens were all closed and only blue runs were open. The blue we chose happened to face the lodge for all to see. All my parents saw was the small dot that was their daughter tumbling down the face of the mountain.
Second, after this fiasco, the instructors lined all the ski school kids up and asked us to swish-swish for a couple seconds. I did as I was told and was put in a group of intermediate skiers. Why no one asked whether I'd ever skied before, I don't know. But before I knew it, I was again at the top of the mountain being asked to do things I didn't understand. I raised my hand to ask what they had meant, the instructors exchanged confused glances, and I clarified that I've never skied before. Panic ensued, I had one-on-one help down the mountain, and then it was agreed that I, a 12-year-old girl, would be put in the most age-appropriate, but skill-appropriate, group. The blend landed me with the advanced beginner 6-year-old boys. Any more basic and I'd be with the 3-year-olds.
Finally, of the three separate lessons I had, two of them ended with me flying off the trail into the forest. The first time mostly just had me whipping past many small trees and was probably more scary than painful. However, the second time had me fly off a run only to be stopped by a large pine tree. As I lay in the snow after smacking into it, I had my first experience of questioning whether I was actually dead. When I realized I wasn't, I was then convinced I'd broken my arm. I luckily didn't though the bruise lasted for months. And I never could get the pine needles out from the lining of my jacket.
A long story to explain my initial thoughts on skiing. From there on out, my ski experiences seemed to oscillate between good and bad. I had a fun trip in high school with friends to Killington, followed by a stressful experience in college to Stowe with an ex-boyfriend that expected way more out of my skill set. And finally, a strange experience inside a mall in Dubai with Dave where, while he chuckled at my fear of the tiny indoor run, he was patient and helpful in getting me to overcome my fears.
So flash forward to our trip to Vail, almost 12 years since my last ski trip on an actual mountain (sorry Dubai, you do not count). While the Dubai experience did help quell some of my worries, there was still a lot to overcome. However, it would be my first time skiing "out west" and I was excited to see what this powder was all about.
The flight to Denver was easy, and we got in late, so we stayed overnight before meeting up with Jenna and her friend Alexis to drive the two hours out to Vail. Thankfully, the weather was beautiful (as I've heard it can be a tough drive in the snow), and we arrived by mid-morning. We checked in to our apartment, donned our ski jackets, and ended up at a ski shop owned by a friend of Jenna's friend.
The trusty steeds.
After a quick breakfast, we were on the lift and up the mountain. Thankfully, Vail offered more than Doe Mountain with plenty of green runs to start me off. While this first one, Lost Boy, scared the crap out of me standing on top of it, it soon became one of my favorites.
We spent the afternoon getting me comfortable, and thanks to the multitude of greens and catwalks, I was feeling pretty good. Good enough to enjoy a cold beer on the mountain. This is certainly not how skiing went in Pennsylvania as a kid.
And what beats a hot fire at the lodge after a long day of skiing? I soon learned: nothing. Nothing beats it.
Day 2 of skiing was interesting as it was my first experience of skiing in a snowstorm. Things got pretty bad with white-out conditions, so we stopped skiing early to grab lunch with a few of Jenna's friends and see if conditions got better. Since there was nothing to take a picture of outside but white, here's my only photo of the day's activities.
Day 3 ended up being perfect conditions: blue skies, fresh powder, and a comfortable confidence in skiing.
My confidence was in large part to the encouragement and patience of this guy with the orange stripe.
His patience was particularly heartwarming for the number of catwalks I forced him on. I. Love. Catwalks. (For non-skiers, catwalks are the relatively flat runs. I picture them as the service roads in the summer. They are generally considered a nightmare for anyone who actually is a skier since they are so flat and "boring", but they were just what this novice needed to build confidence and control speed.)
Catwalks also allow for stops to take photos. I mean, what more could I ask for?
Another pit stop mid-mountain.
That Sunday was Superbowl Sunday, so we stopped skiing early to pitch up at the Ritz-Carlton bar and watch the game on the big screens.
The final day of skiing was actually my birthday. Whenever my lift pass was scanned, the machine didn't just beep, but played The Beatles "Birthday" (nar nar-nar nar-nar nar) which put me in SUCH a good birthday mood. It was a little cloudier this morning, but the sun peeking through the clouds was beautiful as we climbed the mountain.
Ahh, starting to love this view and feeling like I'm part of the ski cult.
Another shot from Lost Boy.
We decided to try a different side of the mountain as the day went on. One that had a ton of nice short greens to choose from and almost no one on the lifts. We just went up and down, up and down for hours.
It was such a great day, made better by rogue text messages and phone calls by everyone in my life (the best part of any birthday).
I also mistakenly ended up on my first blue of the trip. After a wrong turn on a catwalk, we were standing on top of a run with only one way down. My confidence was running high, and I told Dave to "just go". Before I could freak myself out, I threw myself over and did pretty well. Dave insisted we should switch to doing blues now that he could see I could handle it. But my response was "could, but don't want to".
I walked away from skiing that trip flying HIGH. I wanted a ski trip EVERY YEAR FOREVER. It was a great feeling.
Now that was my ski experience, but let's talk about Vail itself. For starters, here's a couple of facts summed up in these signs.
But my opinion was: I loved Vail. LOVED it. It was like a living Christmas card. All the buildings had that German/Swiss village feel, there was a dusting of snow all over the pine trees, and Christmas lights lit things up at night.
Little streams wove through the town, with the gentle sound of water helping paint the scene while bridges wove back and forth around the village.
There was one "main street" through Vail Village lined with fancy shops and boutiques, and, most of the village was car-free.
The snow didn't hurt in making the village look gorgeous either.
Decorations were up for the 2015 Alpine World Ski Championships. Would have been fun to see, but it started the next day!
As a birthday treat, since Jenna and Alexis left that day, Dave booked us at a fancy hotel in the village called the Arrabelle. It was like ski lodge meets hotel, complete with in-room fireplace. We spent our last night enjoying the village and the hotel views before our very early wake-up call back to Denver the next day.
Rooftop pool at the Arrabelle with some gorgeous views of the village.
Ice skating rink in the center of the village. Again, like a Christmas card.
So while I came into this trip not sure what to expect on the skiing front, I walked away only wanting more. While I know that I'll never be a fantastic skier, I love the whole concept of the ski culture. Vail was stunning and will always hold a special place in my heart for getting me past my fear of the mountain.
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