On my first ski trip I felt like a natural, then the mountain humbled me

My sister sold the weekend with four words: “Twenty hot lesbians in a cabin in the snow.” I’m not a sports dyke — more a like-to-read-books-and-sit-in-saunas dyke — but the pitch worked. I’d barely seen a pair of skis before; skiing felt like something for rich white Harrys and Hannahs, yet armed with borrowed snow clothes and a mantra of “life is for living,” I showed up to meet the crew.

I did a quick lesson, then felt fast and in control on the bunny hill: go, turn, stop. I was whizzing down, yelling at slow skiers and imagining Olympics-level glory while Darude’s Sandstorm played in my head. Panic hit when we needed the longer chairlift — I’m terrible with heights, my mouth went dry and my heart pumped — so I swallowed half a prescription muscle relaxant before we climbed.

Down the slope the group went and I followed, then promptly fell. Nay helped me up and I tried again, only to face a run that felt like a sheer cliff with icy, steep snow beneath.

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