copyright 2013
Theory and Analysis of Lifetime Sports
Lifetime Development and Maintenance of Advanced Alpine Skiing Skills
A lifelong love of alpine skiing has developed in me an obsession with form and grace, extending into all areas of my life. From the first time I saw photos of Stein Eriksen’s easy turns, and read the words “reverse shoulder” and “stem Christy,” my mind has been captivated by the desire to put into action all the knowledge I gain from books and magazines on the subject. This essay will demonstrate the development and maintenance of lifetime skiing skills, and will relate this exercise to the reality of negotiating the often-terrorizing terrain of life on and off the slopes. For documentation I have included photographs of myself in various skiing situations, and at different times in my life.
Novice
“Try not to cross your tips.” The tow-rope tore through my little gloved fists and jerked me into motion. A wobbly start, then stubby skis settling tentatively into the track, and then a scary and speedy ride to the top of the short hill, and… wumpf. Down I went. The instructor helped me up, and pointed my tips back down the hill. That rope-tow scared the daylights out of me. It seemed to tear by at a hundred miles an hour. But after a few runs, my legs grew accustomed to the gentle slope and I was able to sidle up to the rope and grab it with one hand. I noticed the snowflakes floating gently through the afternoon sky, and tipped my head back to capture some cold bits on my tongue. It was fourth-grade heaven.
The common elements of ski instruction have evolved somewhat, though the concepts remain secure. Little kids are coaxed out onto the snow, and soon take to the slopes like fish to water. Tow ropes and, more recently, a carpeted conveyer belt for the tiny tykes, have become standard fare for the “ski-wee” set. Heading the other direction (downhill), the basic technique of “snowplow,” or applying pressure to the inside edges of both skis in a wedge fashion, is still the method of choice for controlling speed at this skill level. Soon these youngsters graduate to the “bunny hill,” where they first learn to ride a T-bar or chairlift. It is at this time in the beginning skier’s instruction that the elements of balance, self-esteem, confidence, humility and pride collide to form that elusive mix known as a “beginning skill set.” This magical bag of tricks includes the ability to avoid distractions, to maintain forward motion without falling down, to keep one’s wits about oneself, and above all, to stop.
Youngsters who develop the beginning skill set are likely to derive from the exercise a sense of accomplishment akin to the highest achievement known. This activity lands squarely in the middle of the academic year; consequently, non-skiing friends at school will turn green with envy when they learn that Marcia or Joey can ski. Furthermore, she or he is now a part of that group that talks with such wisdom of jumps, night skiing, and cute boys or girls in the lift line.
Adults who begin alpine skiing lessons for the first time may find a great deal of fear associated with the activity. To challenge a mountain is an awesome thing. Sudden whiteouts, frostbite, and hypothermia may crowd into the mind to distract the adult beginner’s attention. Rampant ego may dictate that the first run ever must be up the chairlift and down an intermediate slope.
When I was a beginner, my father took me out on the intermediate hill. He had bought for me a pair of skis with the old-style “bear-trap bindings.” These beastly contraptions fastened the boots securely to the skis. I was on my first run ever down the South Canyon side of the Daisy chair at Mount Hood Meadows in Oregon. It was dark, and snowing lightly. I felt cold. I had fallen a number of times, and my clothes were wet. I just wanted to get down the hill and have a cup of hot cocoa. I was frightened by the long expanses of open hillside, and by the fast skiers tearing by at breakneck speed and shouting to one another in the artificially lit night.
I lost sight of my dad, and I was going too fast. Suddenly a dark projectile shot out of the woods. I couldn’t stop, and the cannonball of death knocked me down, hard. I hit my head on the snow, and when I recovered I turned my vengeful eye at my attacker. “Sorry,” said the out-of-control adult beginner as he righted himself and took off into the unknown.
Much shaken, I briefly acknowledged the concerned shout of my father from farther up the hill. In misery, I righted myself and tentatively started down the hill again. At the cat-track, another skier sped toward me. I was shocked. Once again, I fuzzily reckoned I was going much too fast. I crossed my tips and fell, face-first in the snow. A sickening crack met my ears. I turned in horror to see my left foot, backwards from the rest of the leg, still firmly planted in the boot and attached to the dreaded ski. I began to sob, great gasps of anguish spilling out into the cold, clear night. Broken leg.
What had become a truly traumatic event began to shape up shortly thereafter. I had my first experience with the ski patrol, whose gentle and powerful agents deftly removed the skis and boots, placed me in a rescue sled, and splinted the fractured tibia right there on the mountain. When I arrived at the hospital in Hood River an hour later, there was nothing for the doctor to do but cast the leg. The ski patrol had set the fracture as expertly as any physician. Adding to the bright blessings of the post-traumatic experience, I was now a war hero. The following week in school, I accepted all offers of signatures and goofy drawings on the hip-height cast with the easy grace of a diplomat.
The fourth-grade experience with a broken leg translates into a fierce resolve in the rest of life. The ability to walk through fears is the most dramatic result. When a youngster recovers from the trauma of a terrifying accident, painful break and lengthy recovery, then few challenges in life can overshadow that drama. The child learns that fear and pain fall flat before the force of will.
Another great lesson from this type of experience is dependence. A healthy respect for the power of paramedics and doctors to invoke the healing process can lead the child to seek a caring and dependent relationship with God. I was awed by the ability of the Ski Patrol to “set” the fracture perfectly on the mountain, and I concluded that my desperate prayers in the snow had been answered with a resounding “Yes.”
Intermediate
Green circle. Blue square. Black diamond. Double black. To the uninformed, this might sound like an obscure card game. But to the developing skier, these symbols represent the ladder of success. As urgently as a neophyte Shotokan Karate student seeks his succession of colored belts, the student skier longs to pepper her experience with more and more difficult terrain.
As a junior high student, my favorite event was Wednesday night skiing at Cooper Spur Ski Resort, also on Mount Hood. Now a mildly major resort with even greater plans, Cooper Spur was at that time a small family ski area. A single T-bar lift led to a catwalk, from which a variety of slopes descended to the small day lodge. Local kids swooped in and out of the moguls on the steep and challenging Face, caught air off the log jump at the top of the steep “Showtime” or sought powder in the lonely, spotlighted runs at the end of the catwalk. Lift tickets sold for a buck, and all my friends were there.
The intermediate skier feels secure and confident on groomed trails. He has developed such skills as the stem Christy, or step turn. This all-purpose turn is the foundation of all race turns, and allows the skier to experience the obvious “weighting and unweighting” of each ski in a rhythmic fashion. To begin the turn, the skier points his skis down the fall line, that is, toward the bottom of the hill. To turn, he lifts one ski off the snow and steps out to that side. By placing all his weight on the inside edge of that ski, he begins to turn in the opposite direction. The other ski is brought into parallel, and the turn is completed with the help of both skis. To practice this turn, student racers will lift the inside ski completely off the snow and hold it there until it’s time to turn the other direction. The skier’s weight is then entirely on the outside, or “carving” ski.
The natural outgrowth of the development of beginning racing skills is the exercise of “running gates.” The slalom course begins to call, and the mischievous mind of the mid-level ski student can’t resist the discipline of forcing turns in precise places. This is particularly true after an invitational ski race, when rogue intermediates sneak onto the course to “wick some gates” and fancy themselves champions before the bamboo or fiberglass poles are taken down.
At this intermediate stage, the skier also becomes fascinated with “air time.” As a junior-high, fall-line-obsessed maniac, I loved to swoop into a little-known creekbed among the trees, near the bottom of the Palmer lift at Timberline Lodge. The creek formed a natural chute, in the days before man-made snowboard parks marred the alpine landscape forever. My friends and I loved to drop in and blast skyward on the opposite lip, only to flip 180 (more like 130) and successfully drop back in. Straight-ahead jumps over snow-covered boulders or tree stumps were intermediate gold. The desire to land a grand spread-eagle, “daffy” (aka scissor-kick), or “backscratcher” while airborne can produce some of the most spectacular wipeouts on the planet.
The life lessons gleaned from the intermediate skiing experience seem to parallel the emotional development of most people: Skiers who rarely hit the slopes will probably never develop beyond the intermediate stage. The concept of practice and perseverance will not apply to their skiing. Likewise, in life they may never progress beyond the reacting and scheming that comes naturally to those in the human condition. Chronic malcontents, they will continually be comparing themselves to the real performers in whatever profession they weakly embrace.
Advanced Intermediate
Ask any high-school skier worth his or her salt what their skill level is. The response will typically be (with a humble shrug), “intermediate to advanced.” This magical answer contains the seeds of a lifetime of skiing. The wizardry of the advanced intermediate, particularly if this stage is reached at a young age, smacks of a future on the slopes and on the winner’s block. Dreams of Olympic gold, World Cup victory, and heli-skiing in Warren Miller movies come to roost in the thoughts of the young athlete. She now takes great pleasure in planning a route through a treacherous mogul field, and executing most of it. Her times are shorter on the more-frequent Nastar races. Perhaps the high-school ski team gets this student as a new member.
But the finest test of the AI skill level is powder. Steep and deep, this fresh snow and cold-air experience takes on an irresistible charm to the eager skier. As a racer, I had learned over and over to lean forward in my boots, to feel the edges with my toes, and carve those turns. When I found powder, though, all that changed. This feathery substance required the development of a new level of skiing prowess. I learned to center my weight directly over level, flat, parallel skis, back ramrod straight and knees jumping up to 90 angles. The new skill even involved leaning back for control when necessary. The worst thing one can do in deep powder is to sink a tip, so the first few runs in the deep are lessons in “why we use a ‘leash’ when skiing in deep powder.” The loss of a ski that has skittered away under the undisturbed sea of white is a time-consuming event that threatens to dampen even the most jubilant spirits.
Floating through the forest, navigating between the trees on a hill that seemed much too steep to support such control, my tips crested the surface of the weightless down. I gasped with delight, the cold night air filling my chest with an overwhelming, beautiful shock. It was real! I had never had such an experience in powder. The ankle-deep snows of Mount Hood had somehow, miraculously, multiplied a hundred-fold in 24 hours of sub-zero manna from heaven. Waist-deep and ethereal, the powder exploded around me with every careful and exhausting jump-turn. At once I understood the name of Tahoe’s Heavenly Valley.
Advanced
Longer skis. Better boots. Steeper hills. Faster times. Now our skier has graduated to the upper echelons of the skiing world. Most skiers never attain the skills, knowledge, and gear that the advanced skier boasts. Most likely, he or she is a racer who has been actively running gates for four consecutive years or longer. There is still fear, but confidence and adrenaline will cause the advanced skier to enter terrain and drop off cliffs and cornices that the intermediate-level skier can only admire.
My own experience at this level was relatively short-lived. And although my skills may yet be described as “advanced,” I fear I will never again ski with the abandon this title suggests. I now have a family with young children, a concerned wife, and a half-million dollar life insurance policy, lest I forget my place. I am in my 30’s and beginning to feel the effects of jumping off roofs and cliffs. A sprained ankle from playing basketball; a strained shoulder from tossing my daughter in the air; and the double-black diamond high drop on Elevator Shaft starts to look like a sure trip to the hospital.
Ah, well. I shall retire to the blue squares and adrenaline-producing speeds of the Intermediate runs, and the single black diamonds of the occasional steep and fast showboat run. And I shall work on my reverse shoulder turns, knowing that fitness and grace are hand in hand. I will also continue to seek and destroy bumps, cornices, and steep powder-filled bowls, for as long as breath is in me.
Expert
Warren Miller's movies are filled with expert skiers. These are the rare birds that fly with easy grace from a helicopter, skis together, backs straight and knees bent, out into the open air and drop with arms outstretched into a waist-deep field of powder at the top of a forbidding mountain. They are shown outrunning avalanches, shooting off 60-foot cliffs, and landing every acrobatic jump with aplomb. Most of us grow old (read: 40-plus) before ever graduating to this elite level, but those who reach Expert have reached skiing nirvana. No hill is too steep, or rocky, or peppered with trees to deter the expert skier. They are admired from the chairlift as they amble effortlessly through a lethal mogul field or drop into a steep bowl from the high ridge, the one you have to hike to. Broken skis and broken limbs are of no consequence to the Expert.
In the Winter Olympics and the World Cup of racing, the greats of skiing are displayed for all the world to see. Jonny Mosely, the mogul king, has shown us that it is possible to negotiate a nightmarish field of apparently random bumps with easy grace and hard piston-like legs. The aerial artists who perform “jelly rolls” and inverted helicopters with a full twist are the daredevil elite of the skiing world. But on the slopes of every ski resort are another class of expert: The Ski Patrol.
Nothing is more beautiful to an above-average skier as a ski patrol officer in his or her yellow or red Gore-Tex™ jacket, making perfect turns while scouring the slopes for out-of-bounds intermediates. These heroes of the hills are often trained paramedics, with catlike reflexes and razor-sharp intuition. Providing comfort and safety to the masses, they flit about on the latest demo equipment while joking gently with the lift operators.
A harrowing experience raised its head while I was riding the Blue chairlift at night at Mount Hood Meadows in the early 1980’s. The weather had degenerated into a Northwestern phenomenon known as “freezing rain.” The wind had picked up, and the chairlift was beginning to sway erratically. Fear gripped my partner and me as I began to pray we would make it to the top of the lift safely. I promised myself this would be the last run. As we swung out over the second-highest area of the chairlift (about 60 feet off the ground; the highest span is about 100 feet up), the cables ground to a screeching halt on the lift towers. "Pop. Pop. Pop. Skreeeeeeek."
If one has never heard the sound of a lift cable stretching as it forcibly stops, one cannot know the peculiar panic of that moment. In sheer desperation, I prepared to kick off my skis and jump free, lest the cable snap above my head. From that height, I expected the skis to become razor-sharp rapiers if the lift chair were to fall straight to earth. In an alternate scenario, the cable could snap farther up the hill, or even on the return side, and we might be gently lowered to the ground.
I clung to the poles suspending our small perch as the chair swung to and fro in the icy wetness. There was a last shudder of activity from the lift tower, and then silence. For what seemed like an eternity, we swayed in the freezing breeze, waiting for the lift to start back up. They must be fixing the engine in the lift house, I surmised. Finally it became clear that we weren’t going to move. And then I heard voices from far below. There was the ski patrol, moving up the line, lowering stranded and frozen skiers to the hillside below by way of a little seat at the end of a rope. When they came to our chair, they swung a long line over the cable in front of us with a tiny metal anchor on a short pole at the end.
"Slide it under your butt and jump off the chair." The clear call of the red-jacketed ski patrol came up through the night.
"Yeah, right," I thought. But there seemed no other way down. I called back: "Do you want me to kick off my skis?"
"No, just keep them on. They will stabilize you on the way down."
In one of the most unnatural acts of my life, I scuttled onto the tiny seat and pushed myself off the chairlift. Suddenly I was dangling 60 feet up in space, clinging to a steel broomstick and swinging in the icy wind. My heart leaped into my throat as I frantically surveyed the scene. There, far below, were the heroic members of the Mt. Hood Ski Patrol. Wedged against the hill, two of them lowered me to the ground as a third looked on and talked me down.
Once on the snow, he asked me if I could ski down. I thought I could, and said so.
Safe again in the lodge, we were given hot cocoa and checked for frostbite and hypothermia. If it weren’t for the daring expertise and training of expert skiers, in love with the mountain and primed for service, that night on Mount Hood might have been much worse.
Conclusion
When a child first grabs the rope tow, someone really ought to tell the parents about the compulsion that will be embedded in his tender young mind. It may crowd out all else, becoming an obsession that threatens to overtake all other thoughts. So deeply in my psyche is the mountain and the snow, that when I lived in the Bay Area and took the occasional trip to Tahoe to try my skills at Alpine Meadows or Squaw Valley, it only fostered in me a desire to move closer to the mountains. Since I was unsuccessful at landing a job in Roseville, I began to pine for the Cascades, and in 2001 completed the cycle. My family and I now live in Saint Helens, Oregon. From Highway 30 en route to Portland I can see three mountains, including Mount Hood. Skiing is two and a half hours away, and I’m thinking about moving to the other side of town to be at a little higher elevation. Bring it on!
Documentation
For documentation, I have attached some pictures of myself skiing and wakeboarding (an off-season variant of skiing) at various times in recent history.

