How I Became a Snowboarder at 34 Years Old

I’m a midwestern girl; I’m no stranger to long cold winters. However, when I moved to Boise, ID, after spending three gloriously warm winters in southern California, it was like Game of Thrones chanting in my ears, “Winter is coming.” I was scared. I knew I needed something to lean into that season. Enter snowboarding.

First, I should probably admit to having a deep, irrational fear of inclines. Blame my Flatlander upbringing (shout out to Central Illinois!). I can't really explain why steep hills strike fear into my heart. I just envision myself tipping forward, then tumbling down, head over feet. Why was I taking up snowboarding again?

At the time, I’d started dating an adventurous mountain man who was, among other things, a snowboarder. Then, I discovered the learn-to-ride program at my local ski area. I could hear the mountain calling me.

After the initial sticker shock of lift tickets, gear rental, and lessons (how does anyone afford this??) I realized the Passport Program at Bogus Basin was a great deal. Their learn-to-ride package includes four lessons, unlimited gear rental, plus a season pass for $450. Not bad, considering many resort season passes start around $700 and up. As an unexpected bonus for signing up late in the season, I received a pass for the following season, too!

The next thing I knew, I was at 6,000 feet elevation, bundled up, strapped into my rental boots and helmet, awkwardly carrying my board out toward the coach chairlift. What the heck was I doing?

Our instructor, Auggie, got right to business, showing us how to strap one foot on the board and push with the other foot to slide around on the snow. My calves immediately started burning, but so far so good. After a few minutes of sliding around, he points to what is, objectively, a tiny hill. In my eyes, at that moment, it was Mt. St. Helens.

I swallowed my fear and trudged up the hill. With one foot strapped in and the other standing on the board, he tells us to slide down. I assume I will go flying down the hill, faceplant in the snow, humiliate myself, and/or die. Surprisingly, none of those things happens! I arrive at the bottom, shocked to be upright on my board. Exhilarated, I go again. I practice standing sideways on my board, sliding, and trying to avoid hitting innocent bystanders.

Then Auggie points to “the carpet,” an airport-style conveyor belt carrying primarily toddlers on skis about 200 feet up the “bunny hill.” Is he serious? I’m so not ready for this.

We slide over and mount the carpet. I try to breathe, smile, and snap a selfie. If the toddlers can do this, so can I.

We get off and strap in. From this vantage point on the bunny hill, I feel like I’m atop Mt. Kilimanjaro. My phobia is screaming at me that this is impossible. How does anyone do this and live? Somehow, I face down the mountain, stare death in the face, and immediately end up on my butt.

As it turns out, bruising one’s backside is a rite of passage in snowboarding. I tell my ego to ignore all the child prodigies whizzing down the hill (show-offs) and try again. I probably fall every 10 feet, but I make it to the bottom of the hill, avoiding catastrophe. Then, back up the carpet. Before long, I make it the 200 or so feet to the bottom without falling at all! I can’t even believe this! I’m ready to celebrate this miracle with my very first après-ski. However, Auggie has other ideas. He points to the chairlift. The actual chairlift.

I’d seen enough “Jerry of the Day” videos to have a healthy respect for the chairlift. For a laugh, Google “Jerry of the Day”... You’re welcome. To make matters worse, getting on (and off) the lift is undoubtedly more awkward for snowboarders than skiers. We mount the lift without incident and at the top, I gracefully exit the moving seat and come to a controlled stop. Just kidding. I totally Jerry it and fall on my face. But that’s ok! Auggie rescues me before we create a human pile-up. Now, I’m at the summit of the bunny hill. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

Mercifully, the bunny hill at Bogus Basin includes a wide 90-degree curve, so visually it doesn’t trigger my phobia the same way staring down a long, unbroken slope would. However, as soon as I arrive at the curve, I realize I have no ability to navigate this turn and see myself shooting over the edge, momentarily hanging in the air - Bugs Bunny style - before gravity kicks in. I take a seat on the snow before that can happen. Auggie pulls up to give me some tips and encouragement. I reorient myself, and with some hand-holding, I make it down the entire bunny hill unscathed.

By the end of that first lesson, I learn that snowboarding is an exercise in humility and resilience. I’m darn proud of myself! I practically float my way to the parking lot, riding the high that comes from cheating death. I’m already hooked.

The next day I master dismounting the chairlift and slide to stop without falling! Hey, take that Jerry! Over the course of my next few runs I start to get this feeling like I’m flying on a magic carpet. In reality, I’m barely controlling my speed and direction. Still, it’s addictive, and I’m already glad I picked snowboarding over skiing.

On my third lesson, both Auggie and the snow conditions throw a serious curveball. Apparently, I was lucky to have soft, forgiving snow for my first couple of lessons; snow is not always so kind. This day, it’s hard with an almost icy crust. My tailbone howls on impact. I try harder to avoid sudden rendezvous between my butt and the ground.

I work toward mastering my first technical skill; in snowboarding you often balance your weight on either the heel edge or toe edge of the board. I try to teach my muscles this odd, new sensation of bending my knees and ankles to shift my weight while keeping my waist and shoulders upright, searching for that narrow, ever-changing balance point.

If you don’t find that balance point, snowboards have a habit of “catching” the snow, like hitting a rock in roller skates, and sending you flying face-first into the snow. I try to avoid eating snow.

Just as I’m kinda getting the hang of my heel edge and compensating for the icy snow, Auggie ups the ante. It’s time to try “the Bowl.” Stewart’s Bowl, is a short run with steeply curving sides. Because of these steep sides, you have to ‘drop in’ to the run, i.e., tackle the steepest part, just to get started.

As we stand at the lip of the bowl, looking down over the edge, Auggie explains how to drop in on our toe edge. I try to listen, but I’m also trying not to hyperventilate.

He demonstrates by zooming down and away from us, then stops by balancing on the toe edge of his board. Imagine shoving a popsicle stick sideways into a wall of snow. That’s what Auggie looks like, standing on a tiny ledge, with the back edge of his board supported by nothing but air.

It’s my turn, and I stare down at Auggie and the other students. My phobia is screaming that this is literally impossible. I am frozen, paralyzed. I tell myself I have to do this. Somehow, I shut out that screaming part of my brain and drop in.

I can’t really comprehend the physics of what’s happening, but I’m shooting fast down the side of that mountain, with the front edge of my board gripping the snow, my weight balanced forward on my toes. I come to a stop and fall forward onto my hands, grateful to feel the solid wall of snow and try not to look down. I made it into the bowl. Now it's a matter of sliding sideways again, in a giant zig-zag pattern, cutting back and forth across the bowl, working our way down.

On my next sideways pass, Auggie tries to get me to turn from my toe edge to my heel edge so I’m facing down the mountain, instead of looking up. I can’t quite execute this turn, so I sit down to turn my board around. Now I'm fully freaked out that I have to look down the mountain. My eyes bug out and I see the ground dropping sharply away from me. Auggie takes pity on me; he rides backward down the rest of the slope, holding my hands and guiding me down.

At this point, I’m pretty exhausted by the physicality of balancing on my heels and toes. My backside aches with bruises. I’m mentally drained by the effort of facing my fears and consciously coaching my body parts to work together in unfamiliar ways. I’m toast.

And yet…I do it again. I stand at the lip of the bowl. My mind screams just as loudly: This. Is. Impossible.

I forcefully tell myself I’ve done this before; therefore it IS possible. Again, I shut out the panic and drop in. I make it down the hill 3 or 4 more times that day. It’s not pretty, but I don’t need my hand held again. I call that a victory.

I return to the bunny hill the following day to work on my toe edge repeatedly before tackling Stewart’s Bowl. I’m getting better, more comfortable, and more capable.

I never thought I could have so much fun while facing a life-long fear. Soon, I’m obsessed with the sensations of snowboarding. My entire focus is pulled into my body to meet the demands of the mountain. There’s a term for this all-consuming mind-body immersion. It’s called achieving a “flow state.”

I’m fully addicted, just in time for the snow to melt and the season to end. For the first time in my life, I look forward to next winter.