I learned how to ski when I was eight years old on the meager mountains in northern Connecticut that had little more than a bunny slope and magic carpet-style ski lift. As a kid, I traveled annually to tourist-filled Vermont mountains like Jay Peak, Stratton and Killington for family trips. This is the mere extent of my ski training. Thus, alongside the fact that I haven’t skied since the eighth grade, I would consider myself today as “a person who can ski,” rather than a “skier” — a distinct, often overlooked difference.

This distinction was particularly glossed over atop the ski mountain in Vail, Colo., when my friends turned towards a black diamond trail. I peered over the edge with terror: it was a mogul-filled, 90-degree sloped, ungroomed ascent into snowy oblivion. I should have sensed disaster. 

As I began to make my way down the hill, not wanting to cause a scene over the compounding anxiety in my chest, I fell gently once, and then a second time. The third time was another story.

Two skis popped off, I somersaulted mid-air, heard a blistering crack and began to slide down the mountain backward in complete despair and panic. I have never been so grateful to be wearing a helmet. 

Thankfully, besides a brief moment of adrenaline-produced tears on the mountain (and a few chips on my rented skis), I was unharmed. What solidifies this fall in history, however, is that it was recorded on video by one of my friends who had already made her way down the mountain. 

This video will forever live in memory with the idea that I am not a skier, I am simply a person who knows how to ski. I have learned to now stick to the easy ski slopes, and perhaps see a promising future as a cross-country skier, where I can simply glide around the mountains and soak in the views. 

Photos by Lauren Doherty / The Hoya