Breaking my ego with a mouthful of Norwegian snow.
Who wants to go on a winter vacation anyway?
The quiet before the storm.
"A little snow will do you some good." I thought with my head hanging over the edge of the air mattress, fumbling with my phone charger.
The squeak of the rubber bed was echoing around the tick of an electric clock buried in a box on the other side of the room. Each infuriating thunk of the second hand pulling me further and further away from dreamland.
There was nothing to do but ruminate.
"Was moving back to my parents' place (temporarily) at 30 after a breakup a good life decision? Or one that will cut down my self-esteem further and haunt me for years to come?"
A shotgun to the foot would have likely been more productive.
I was crashing at the home of a friend of a friend I'd met only a couple of hours before, praying to get some sleep before our group flight to Norway the next morning. Snowboarding was on the agenda, a brand new adventure for me, and one I had very little time to prepare for. Despite my brave face at dinner though, I knew calling this trip a "vacation" would likely be a step too far.
If I were to survive the week, my desire for comfort had to be thrown out the window.
Rolling over one last time, my phone pushing midnight, I reluctantly set my alarm for 4am. I hate early starts.
Trysil, Norway.
Trysil was truly spectacular. A winter wonderland in the most literal sense.
Even with the tiny window of light the sun granted us each day before passing behind the mountain, the views were immaculate. Glistening snow in every direction, pine trees dotted between each of the runs, and (on the clear days) a pastel sunset that no camera could accurately capture.
But I've always had a hard time with the cold and snow.
Raynaud's disease likes to freeze my fingers and feet until they reach a textureless, burning stage. Not quite frostbite, but the edge poor circulation drags you to when you're just trying to make a snowball. White insta-freeze. Something I discovered I had while working the deep freezer at a local butcher's for my high school "work experience" when my cushy radio job fell through at the last minute.
My teenage grudge is still strong, if you couldn't tell.
So to even suggest going somewhere that was -5C° (23F°) on a good day was absurd. I would have rather boiled my eyeballs.
You're telling me I need a full ski suit, two sets of gloves, thermals, a neck warmer, a hat, thick socks, boots, and waterproofs just to go outside? Can we not do the warm version of a snowboarding vacation instead, y'know, the kind with waves and palm trees?
I was here for a reason though. One that would hit me like a tonne of bricks on the first clip of the snowboard boot.
Taking the crash course.
Local Norwegians and their children looked on in horror as I fumbled my way down the slope like a lame three-legged lamb on its first day on planet Earth.
Fresh snow had wormed its way into my boots, and I could no longer hide my disappointment. We'd barely left the chalet.
Real snow was totally different from the muddy artificial slopes I'd been practicing on back home and choosing to be strapped to a board all day gave me a strange sense of claustrophobia. As if someone was strapping me to a chair and throwing me out of a plane. You're in the grand expanse of a mountain and have decided to pin, no bolt, your legs onto a piece of fibreglass and plastic - for FUN?
I shook myself out of this spiral as the first button lift came into view. Shimmying my board up to the rotating machine, clammy pools of sweat forming in my gloves.
"Just do what Alex said. Unclip one boot, grab the pole, tuck it into your legs, and lean back as it pulls you up the mountain."
The first button clipped me in the back of the head, knocking me forward, as the process was running through my mind. Then I missed another, and another. When the fourth one came round, the staff member grabbed it for me, politely thrusting it between my legs, and off I went.
I was gliding, frictionless against the fresh powder. Following the channels carved by the skiers who came before me. They were my ancestral guides, and all I had to do was follow their directions gently without tension. My nerves began to soften as I rose to the sky.
For all of about 50 feet.
At the first hint of a tilt in the snow, I lost control of the board, rolling into the deep off-piste snow. Crashing down from Heaven to my knees with a thump.
Children strapped to tiny skis slid past, turning their heads in unison. Their reflective goggles quietly jabbing me with a blank, emotionless stare. I knew this would happen. Something about me being a foreigner, whilst looking the same degree of ghostly white as everybody else, made this far more embarrassing. The worst part wasn't even the walk of shame back to the bottom, it was floundering around in the snow trying to rotate back to an upright position.
But I couldn't complain. I'd chosen to be here and this was only day one.
Introducing: Route 66.
Alex was an excellent teacher despite my openly defeatist attitude.
A gentle giant (in the most jacked "Death Star Delts" sense possible), patiently guiding me between toeside and heelside. Boots on, boots off, waiting at the top of the lift. He stood like a totem. One of the few friends I've had for over ten years and easily one of the most grounded against my chaotic gremlin-ism.
"Hell yeah, you've got this, keep going!" he barked behind me as I carved down Route 66 for the first time, a couple of hours into our training.
The trees became a blur, invisible walls binding me to tunnel vision. My whole body was one with the board, subtle movements pulling me from side to side. I was connected to nothing and everything at the same time, flowing between patches of light and dark. A rush I'd not felt since losing control of my bicycle down a hill during the lockdowns. Control was my typical default but, in this moment, letting go was the only way to not end up with a face full of fresh powder or broken teeth.
Speed felt good. The powder flying by under my feet and not up my nose was a good thing - for once.
Editor's note: Mum, if you're reading this, I'm joking about the implied drug use, however the nose full of snow was real.
Thinking his work was done, Alex went over the next hill to catch up with the rest of the group. Disappearing into the fog, a single wave back to me as he faded away.
Back to being alone.
I repeated this loop for hours. Taking the button lift up to Route 66, and working my way back down. Toddlers with their parents zipping by me as my body began to exhaust and my ankles were losing sensation from poorly set boot clamps.
After the first hints of success though, I'd made very little progress.
Each fall, boot readjustment, and wobble bringing the darkness in over the mountain and my mind simultaneously. Unlike skiing, the feedback loop for snowboarding is massive and my brain hated every second of it. Falling over, alone in the woods, only added more bruises to my already damaged ego.
"Maybe if I just tweaked this setting, I'd be off to the races? I've done it before why can't I just…"
Nah, sorry mate, not this time.
Returning to the chalet to the sound of group cheer, my socks soaked through and boots full of snow, truly put the final nail in the coffin for me. I definitely didn't want to be here and have my identity and athleticism (or lack of) questioned from dawn to dusk for a week. I was over it, on day one.
Cooking my muscles in the sauna to the point of "well done", as sacrilegious as that is, was the only reprieve I could find that night.
Taking in the (foggy) scenery.
For the next few days, I slowly worked my way around the mountain. Trying new slopes, meeting everyone at the pub, taking different lifts. Spending time gawping at the landscape and falling flat on my ass until even the softest snow started to feel like a concrete floor.
A familiar voice swept up behind me one afternoon as I sat staring down yet another "very easy" slope, panting my lungs out. Their board spraying tiny grains of powder over my boots.
"Are you alright? You've been on this route for a while." Alex's eyes truly locked on me with concern buried within them.
I knew he was being sincere, but I was starting to feel like a burden.
Immense shame for being both new, and bad, at something our group loved. The weakest link in the tribe. The one who, in a nomadic scenario, would have been left behind long ago - and rightly so. I was accustomed to being immediately good at anything I focused on yet, this damn slippery board just wouldn't give me a break.
This is the real adulthood the Gifted and Talented experiment doesn't psychologically prepare you for.
Late into day three I was able to, at times, complete Route 66.
Taking the button lift more successfully than not. Swiping around the corners of the route, feeling the momentum between sections. Avoiding the nasty sink hole that had only been labelled with a small orange flag. My day one successes had finally wrapped back around.
I leapt out of bed the next morning, strapping into the super suit I'd crafted for myself overnight. I was untouchable and ready for a new challenge. A harder run, something with gusto and oomph that would be fit for a newly knighted snowboarder.
Route 74 was the target, and F5 was the lift to get there.
Thick woolly fog had settled over the mountain so densely that morning you were practically swimming through clouds. But that was no bother. Locking myself into the button lift ahead of a school group, I was content in my choices for the day. I was levelling up. Getting to grips with what the mountain could truly offer me. Having never touched a snowboard until two weeks prior, I thought I was doing exceedingly well. Carrying a freshly minted ego slowly up the route, aiming to hit the top of Route 74 before any overthinking could settle in.
Then the fog somehow got denser with visibility grinding to a halt.
Before I could see what was happening, I started snaking side to side. The gentle slope had suddenly hit a steep 40+ degree incline and I tumbled right onto the route beside me. Sliding down on my stomach, board in the air, grasping at the loose powder for any sense of grip. I was Wile E. Coyote sliding out on the ice of a frozen lake.
Belly first, face down, helpless, just waiting for friction to kick in.
After sliding for an eternity, and compacting more snow than the local plough under my chin, I came to a staggered stop. Children in pink tutus quietly floated by, disappearing up into the clouds around me.
Unable to bear the thought of damaging my ego further, exhausted by my failure, I walked back to the chalet. I was done. This was no longer fun.
One last day on the snow.
If I was going to do anything today, it was conquer Route 66. The final boss had not moved, I just chose to avoid it. Circling every other possible outcome rather than finishing what I started with confident fury. I sat and watched as time ticked away. Waiting for the right moment. The route already in shadow.
It was now or never.
Standing up the entire week of falls, trips, and failures surfaced like old black and white reruns in my mind. Healed bruises returning as I traced over each section of my body, dusting myself down.
Clamps locked, boots tight, knees bent. Let's go.
The frozen afternoon air was crisp in my lungs. Blood rushed through my joints as I recalled each twist and turn. Momentum was finally my friend. I was comfortable, powering around every corner. Bouncing through every bump. Loose as a goose.
Coming into the clearing, I swiped my board round, sliding down onto my knees. Snowflakes freezing the corners of my tear ducts. It was done.
I carved that snow like I owned it.
Bombing down the final section of Route 45 back to the chalet, a renewed sense of self-esteem washed over me. Adrenaline was dominating, curb-stomping the cortisol that had run rampant in my veins since arriving at the resort. Even losing my balance over the last lip, I continued to fly through the air. Nothing could stop me. I could feel the rush, the flow, the simultaneous beauty of a clear yet hyper-focused mind.
I was ecstatic. Something I apparently made very clear as I kicked in the chalet door to announce myself.
"You guys might have been doing hard routes all day, but this guy did the truly impossible - alone (pointing at myself)."
There was no proof, no video, no tracking, just me, some fresh powder, and Route 66. They had to take my word for it but, I knew what I had achieved.
Although I still wonder if I should have started with skiing instead.
Connor x
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