First, throw away everything you thought skiing would be like. Sliding around in socks on the hard wood floors, only colder; a journey to a dragon’s icy cave; doing somersaults down a snowy hill. Cry when your dad squeezes you into your single-clip boots. Make him carry your foot-long, red skis. Slip and fall on ice in the parking lot; don’t cry. Insist on holding your dad’s hand even though he’s already carrying two pairs of skis. Take ten minutes to click into your bindings, refusing help. Get on the magic carpet. Fall off the edge and roll back down to the bottom, smiling with a face full of snow. Gingerly load the magic carpet, this time eager to reach the top. Ski down between your dad’s legs. Now, by yourself. Listen: pizza pie, like we did together, pizza pie. Do about ten more magic carpet runs, frozen in pizza-pie-mode.

Today is a big day, your first time on a chairlift. You stop at the gate and then quickly shuffle up to the thick red line, reading stop, sandwiched between your mom and dad. The humming of the lift-operating motor crescendos as the chair quickly swings around. It’s coming right at you. You think you’re going to get knocked over, but your mom and dad each grab one of your hands and lift you up in the air. You’re safely seated, but the lift has suddenly stopped. The lift operator picks up your ski out of the snow and hands it to your mom, who puts it back on your foot. You’re disappointed, but your dad tells you that it happens to everyone their first time on a chair lift.

Now with a random bout of fearlessness, you insist on disembarking the lift independently. Your dad-- despite how many people told him it was a bad idea-- hooks you into a harness and leash, a common method of teaching kids to ski. He and your mom noticed how bold you became on the bunny hill and were afraid that you might hurt yourself on harder terrain. Just as the blue run you’re on begins to have some pitch, you throw your arms straight up in the air and neglect to turn. Your dad is jolted forward as you gain speed. It’s a feeling you’re unfamiliar with; the wind against your face as you coast on the snow underfoot. Your dad tries to control you with the leash, stopping you from crashing into people, poles, and trees. You reach the bottom feeling exhilarated and look back at your dad who wears an expression of shock and pride. Hyperventilating, you slide into line, sandwiched again between your parents.

You’re older now and your parents make you go to ski school. According to dad: the only way to become a great skier is to go to ski school. You believe him, but still whine and complain when being dropped off. You like the instructor and the kids are cool so you almost instantly forget about wanting to ski with your parents. You try to show off for your new friends by speeding down the mountain, but you can’t go very fast (mostly because you’re learning to use poles). After lunch, you’re tired and frustrated. Your five year old logic tells you this: If my eyes are open and I’m skiing badly, then if my eyes are closed I will ski well. You quickly shut your eyes and feel like you’ve made an amazing scientific breakthrough, as you’re actually skiing better. Your brain stops thinking about skiing and you fall asleep upright. Your parents just happen to be coming up the chairlift in time to see you slam into a wooden stake and get a bloody nose. Genius; you just fell asleep while skiing.

One day, you meet another family on the slopes. They have three kids all around your age who are really good at skiing. They invite your family to ski with them and you kindly accept. On the lift, the kids tell you all about how they always ski in the woods and jump off rocks and look for something called “pow pow”. You ask what pow pow is and learn that it’s slang for powder snow; a delicacy among skiers. Over time, your family and the other one get closer and ski the woods together almost every weekend. They tell you of this place far in the woods called “Planet X” which you begin to think is the holy grail of skiing. Everyone decides you’re going to go out to Planet X, on a tiring two mile traverse requiring a lot of sidestepping and even some hiking. You drop into the steep, pow pow filled field, following after the dads, of course. After struggling a bit, you catch up with the group who is standing at the top of a steep section that seemed to be a frozen waterfall. Everyone goes down except for you. You peer over the edge and are instantly petrified. Your knees lock, you begin to sweat, you’re shaking. They’re all waiting at the bottom for you, yelling up with encouraging words. It’s not that bad, it’s not even steep, and you’ll be fine go straight through you, as you burst into tears and yell: I’m gunna die!

You’re not dead, but you’re very embarrassed. You’ve been put in ski school again, but are disappointed that your family friends are all in level seven, while you’re in level four. It’s clear they’re better at skiing than you, but you know you can be as good as them. At the beginning of your level four lesson you tenaciously make perfect turns, astonishing your “classmates” who are struggling to make a pizza pie. The instructor moves you up to level five, where you do the same and advance to level six. In level six you can taste victory. You narrow your eyes, bend your knees, and keep your hands in front, making fast, low, impeccable turns. The level six instructor finds your dad and tells him that he’s never seen anything like this. They talk for a bit and then turn to you and say: you’re going to level seven. You don’t let your exuberance get the best of you and simply go in with the group you’ve longed to be with. You’re just in time for the last run of the day; goat woods, your favorite. You glide through the woods in a cloud of white, refusing to stop, despite your tiredness, craving the sensation of pow pow.