My Skiing Story

Six years ago, I set out to become a skier. I grew up skiing sometimes. Fully grown and feeling dangerous, living in Seattle, I submitted an application to officially enlist.

Skiing is part of my lineage (we'll get there in a minute) and I always wanted to do it, for real. Finally, it was going to be my time. I was bursting at the seams with nervous excitement hidden behind a nonchalant exterior. When the moment arrived in February 2017, I felt supremely confident as I buckled in for the first time in years.

The thing was, I had been successful in almost every athletic endeavor. So failure to become the skier I was going to become, wasn't an option for my unyielding psyche. I was going to do it and be good at it. Because I could and I wanted to.

Life has unexpected ways of exposing what you need to change. That February day, at Whistler, I skied about 5 minutes. The next memory I have is a few weeks later, sifting through a darkness, trying to find a needle of myself in a haystack of pain and confusion.

Before we get to all that, please allow me a brief excursion into skiing. Why it's such a meaningful activity for me and so many others.

I am a Skier

Skiing is one of the few identities I allow myself to tether to. I'm judicious about attaching identities or labels to myself. I find it greatly reduces flexibility and openness, as well as other's perception of the same.

As soon as one willingly accepts an identity - skier/snowboarder, American, athlete/NARP, millennial/boomer, democrat/republican, Vikings and Gophers fan - two things happen.

You begin to meld with that association. You become more like your conception of the group - your own fabricated perception.
You activate a latent tribal nature. Anything or anyone in opposition to your group is now in opposition to your identity, and you. Your mind's inner dictator jumps into action to eliminate the conflict and your neural circuitry primes the fight or flight response. Then you're mad online, mad IRL, fleeing to a safe echo chamber, or all of the above.

So why proudly declare?

Like many irrational choices we make in life, it's love. I love skiing and everything about (my definition of) it. It's one of my non-traditional ways of going to church. A day spent playing on the mountain is mentally and physically purifying. Exhausting, yet revitalizing.

Much of living within networks of other humans is highly structured. We constantly constrain ourselves to fit. Not saying that's a good or bad thing, it just is. Skiing is condoned liberation. On the mountain, no one is telling you where to turn, which way to go, how to get down. Except you and the mountain.

You get to spend time in an objectively beautiful setting, with just enough technology to make it possible - but not without effort. Skiing is a laborious dance. The mountain is both the sail and the anchor. Your body is the vessel. Your mind is the protagonist. You're alone with your mind as you dance, song after song, solving a slightly new wrinkle each time.

I've found very few things in life as pure. You are the only thing you can control. The biggest obstacle and only salvation is yourself. Each turn, each run, each day is a beautiful challenge for you and you alone. And therein lies the joy. For my time, there's no better way to learn about yourself. Your weaknesses and impulses are willingly forced out of hiding like a teenage boy emerging for dinner.

In a day of skiing, you deal with success and defeat, unexpected obstacles, physical and mental exhaustion, life ending levels of risk, fear, hubris. You need patience and prudence. Tenacity and daring. You wrestle fears and nourish confidence, while maintaining enough paranoia to not do something profoundly stupid. You must make high quality decisions, fast and slow - in the face of fatigue and frustration, joy and exhilaration.

Once the skis are on, goggles down, and for me, music jamming - the foreboding terrain transforms into a rugged playground, with wonders and dangers abound. Suddenly, each continuous path through the terrain is a line, every patch of snow a turn, and every tree/rock a life altering opponent.

How you answer the same set of questions as you look at the mountain will tell you more about yourself than a year of therapy.

Can you do it?
- Almost always this is a yes, 98% of the time. Whether you allow yourself that answer is another matter.

Should you do it?
- Everything depends on this.

Will you do it?
- The go/no go. If go, the fuse is lit and it's time to stop looking and starting seeing.

That's why I'm a skier.

My Roots

Let's begin our voyage at the beginning, in a pleasant suburban neighborhood in Minnesota. I first skied on the hills around there. Learning to trade Pizza for French Fries in freezing winter winds that blows across the Midwestern plains.

My parents, Brad and Lisa, are great and enthusiastic skiers. They lived in Jackson Hole for several years after college with a cadre of other liberal arts ski bums. Coincidentally, or maybe not, Brad and Lisa started their relationship there.

Take a moment to marvel in the avant-garde, grainy goodness of 70s/80s skiing in the American west:

My Dad, Brad, is a phenomenal skier. He's skied it all - in and out of bounds. He looks the same every time, whether on the run out back to the lift or dropping into a couloir off the peak. A summertime paddler, the mountain does the heavy lifting for him - like a river does for a kayak.

Calmly swishing from turn to turn, he glides across the white canvas leaving a braid of generous arcs behind. If he hasn't patented the style, he could.

Dad taught us all how to ski and how to love it. 'Herr Bradley' was a no bullshit, we're here to ski instructor. A veteran of a 1000 snowy battles, he instilled a never give up, 'ski the fall line' mentality in us.

Taking equal delight in the struggles and triumphs of his troops, he was our platoon leader. Proving him wrong, our biggest motivation. Proving him right, our biggest validation.

*Not me in the picture, I looked way cooler*

My Mom, Lisa, played a lessor role in the skiing operation, but a role nonetheless. She lacked the same zealotry as Dad. Consequently, would often run late day support - hot chocolate, early apres, emotional understanding. When conditions called for it, she'd show us the way amidst the cold smoke.

*Again, not me - never had a goggle gap*

The Journey Begins

Every year we'd head west for spring break and ski for a week (mostly Big Sky). Most years, 5-6 families from our neighborhood in the troupe. We'd caravan across the prairies, minivans our wagons, Gameboys and Walkmans our liquor.

At long last, Lone Peak would come into view. Pilgrimage complete, the party was on. Freedom, top speed rivalries, ill-conceived adventures - fueled by Gushers and granola - would ensue.

As long as the walkie-talkies were on, we had free range. Until family ski time, of course. We'd all put on a good show of protest to save face - masking internal relief. The whole thing was awesome and sorely underappreciated by all.

I didn't really get it until my adult years. As I aged, soccer and basketball commitments often precluded skiing, except for that one week a year. I wasn't a skier, I skied sometimes. And a one week warrior I remained.

The Second Act

I caught the bug in earnest when I moved to Seattle. Fly fishing wasn't very appealing in the winter months, and I loved mountains, and always fancied myself a capable skier.

After a little while out there, I knew my way around Seattle and western Washington. See exhibits A and B:

In addition to getting a dog, skiing was the next logical step. So fall of 2016, I procured new gear, uncomfortable stiff boots, heavy duty skis (Nordica Enforcers). After skiing with hand-me-down and cobbled together gear for years, I was finally equipped appropriately.

Only skiing one week a year as a kid - having fresh gear would've been frivolous as I sprouted up the teenage size ladder. And I wouldn't have built the character my frugal parents were always going on about.

But it was a new era! Looking good and feeling good, my grand second act would start in Whistler. The mountains hadn't seen what I could do with proper gear and full grown frame! I was older and wiser. Bigger and richer (cheers AMZN). Meaner, not leaner.

February 2017, I went up the coast with my parents, aunt and uncle. I hadn't skied in 3 or 4 years, and was ready to rip. And rip I did. The skis were stern and fast, igniting with a flick of my hips. I looked cooler for sure.

My first run was going exactly as planned, I was a natural. I knew it! It feels good to be right I thought. Triumphant, I zipped across the snow - a horse let out of the barn on a frenetic gallop.

That's where my memory of that trip ends. The next memory I have is two weeks later, of confusion, pain, and fear.

I was rudely introduced to an unknown opponent, the likes of which I hadn't seen in my life up to that point. I'd spend 6 years battling the mental monster, although I didn't know it yet.

Intermission

I went over a mound, into a little gully, and didn't reappear. Mom, skiing behind me, looked over the edge and saw carnage. Skis, gear, blood lined the snow. And her son (first born and rightful heir!), motionless. I hear I was unconscious for around 20 minutes. Ski patrol and EMT packaged the fragile package up, and shuffled me down.

To a greater extent than I can remember in life, my destiny wasn't in my hands. I was in and out of consciousness for the next week, in the on-site hospital at Whistler. Then I was moved to Vancouver for a week or two.

It's now a few weeks after I hit the snow. Around this time the contours of my injuries started to clarify.

The starting line up:

Traumatic brain injury, moderate on the official scale. More on this in a second.
Broken wrist (which until week 4/5, I insisted didn't hurt at all - because my head hurt so badly).
Lip and cheek laceration (not my first rodeo here).
Severe bruising on one of my legs (can't recall which).

My spinal cord was intact. Great news! Except, my brain was a big old question mark. The extent of the opponent's victory was still unraveling. The early prognosis was along these lines: It'll get better, but we don't know how much better, where the recovery will stop, or how long it will take.

Not great! This is where my memory comes back. Woah, what a reality bender those memories are. For the hour or two a day I was awake, I was a prisoner in and of pain. Muzzled and confused by a potent cocktail of opiates, I sifted in the darkness searching for myself. It would be some time before I found whatever it is that makes me, me.

To set the scene of the hospital hellscape:

For safety purposes, and due to my vocalized desire for escape, I was confined to the hospital bed - against my befuddled will. And if you know me, that's no bueno. Allegedly, I used the minimal faculties I had to be an somewhat unruly patient.

Telling the nurses wild tales of why I was there and should be allowed to leave (crowd favorite was playing ping-pong in SF).
Calling my parents from the bathroom to tell them the nurses were plotting ways to keep me there.

In my defense, I didn't know why I was there, in pain, and seemingly alone. My opponent was running up the score. Like Hitler in 1940, it was searching for a first defeat.

I had tried everything to get out, to no avail. When finally, my rescuers came bearing the familiar faces of my parents. Upon further review, it was my parents! Happy days!

Using some sort of Jedi mind trick, they were liberating me. The only resistance came in the form of a few forms. Hah! We had them now. Little did they know, my dad was an insurance lawyer. Piece of cake.

Before anyone could say otherwise - moving at light speed from my POV - my parents rolled me right out the front door! Onto bigger and better things, no doubt. In Weekend at Bernie's fashion, my parents drove me across the border back to Seattle.

I was back in Seattle. Within the friendly confines of the free peoples and healthcare industry of the PNW, I was examined in greater detail. The opponent had struck a nearly decisive blow, but at the precipice of victory - fell short of it's aim and I endured.

Numerous nuero-doctors told me the helmet, in all likelihood, saved my life. They also told me and my parents my recovery could take months, years, or my whole life. Based on the injury's severity and our lack of knowledge of the brain, the distribution of outcomes was opaque.

The Road of Recovery

For your time's sake, I'll truncate this part. We could be here another hour unpacking interesting stocking stuffers about:

Our current knowledge of the brain.
The physical and psychological process of coming back to almost 0 as an adult.
The social fabric that connects us humans together.
And bubble tea. Lots of bubble tea.

That's all a story for another time. I'll do my best to pick out the key points and give you a summary worth reading.

I wouldn't do it all again, but wow, I'd love to go back and relive that rapid growth. 9 weeks after I hit the snow, I was back in the office at Amazon (not known as a country club, at least back in 2017). That's not to say the road ahead was clear. On the contrary, it seemed anything but.

~3 Weeks Post Hoc

So there I was - lying in my bed, sleeping for ~20 hours a day. My parents on an air mattress in my small studio apartment in Capital Hill (had an awesome view for the record).

The pain in my head was blinding to all else. As soon as the narcotics would start to wear off, I was in agony. I couldn't walk or really function at all without hand holding.

~4/5 Weeks Post Hoc

My head pain started to subside and holy cow, my wrist hurt. And my leg too. Both seemingly new problems for my beleaguered body to address.

As a sidebar - our brains are incredible, to so dramatically alter the bodily experience to protect resources. Amazing.

I was awake for ~10-12 hours a day now. I'd watch the TV or look at my phone for 15-20 minutes before I fell asleep from the effort.

Marking the end of this stanza, I walked to the local coffee ship on my own. Back on my home turf, I started to remember things and yearn for a return to my life.

~5/6 Weeks Post Hoc

I'm starting to wake up from the nightmare. I remembered my life before the injury and I saw small ripples of myself come into view.

Frustrated by my lethargy and fueled by a new found , I decided to go from substantially doped to cold - immediately - against the advice of my support staff. The following days shall be known as the cold turkey days.

Woof! I will forever understand why people become dependent on opioids. For the next 3 days I felt awful, everything was off kilter and hurt. I couldn't sleep. I'd wake up every 20 minutes or so with my limbs shaking, as if they weren't mine. A dark cloud parked over my mind, a lid on my cognitive jar.

~7 Weeks Post Hoc

The cloud started to lift, and when it did, it went fast. Everything was easier and faster. Whatever it is that makes me, me, had dropped anchor and was swimming in to the dock.

I could feel the progress, almost by the hour. I could do things in the afternoon I couldn't have in the morning. Each new day felt like a year of developmental progress. My physical therapy sessions on Tuesdays and Thursday were playoff games.

Without an end in sight, the darkness of a prolonged, arduous experience would have suffocated me. But now I had a hold of the rope, my lead out of the darkness, and my want and will returned. I gripped the rope with all my might. Going off the painkillers was one of the hardest earned good decisions I've ever made.

My resolve returned to my side, I promised myself two things:

The injury wouldn't define me on an ongoing basis, I'd put it in the past.
I'd recover and come back better than before. Personally, professionally, athletically.

~8 Weeks Post Hoc

I was going to recover, I knew it with certainty. My body and cognition were rapidly improving. I spent the days walking around the city and parks, going to museums, and reading. All impossible a few weeks ago.

I walked to 'Pill Hill' in Seattle with my parents and Haley for what would be the final meeting with the neuro-doctor team. After hearing from the witnesses and plaintiff, conducting their own assessments, one of the docs said something none of us will forget:

"I've never seen a recovery like this before"

Along with incredibly good fortune and support, my internal motor had taken me out of the darkness. A slingshot now propelled me back into life as I remembered it.

~9 Weeks Post Hoc

I went back to work with a head of steam - to prove to everyone I could do it. Maybe a little early in hindsight, but at the time - I was jittering with excited anticipation and needed to do it.

In a few weeks, I was at full speed and my personality emerged from it's shell. I was off to the races, the injury moving into the past like a highway sign in the rear-view mirror.

Getting Back on the Horse

I had taken back the rest of my life, now it was time to face my opponent head on. The wobbling last pin at the end of a bowling alley, I needed to ski and become the card carrying skier I set out to. First, getting back on the horse. And the first step is often the most perilous - as I learned the hard way.

Every winter, my Parents & Associates Co embark on an expedition around the American west. Last year (2017), I didn't make it due to aforementioned circumstances. The moment I returned to my life, I circled the dates. This year, it was on. It was time to go on the attack. And time for us to enjoy some more skiing porn :)

2018, we saddled up and headed east from Seattle for two weeks of skiing. What a trip that was. If you could combine Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon and the victory lap a runner has, with the flag over their shoulders - you'd know how I felt. At the end, the die had been cast and I was back for real.

The hit list:

Crystal Mountain, Washington
Lost Trail, Montana
Big Sky, Montana
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
Tamarack, Idaho

Lost Trail

Big Sky

Jackson Hole

Tamarack

Now we're going to hop in the time machine and skip forward to the final chapter of the saga, before we finish more fun stuff (ski travels and porn)...

The Scene of the Crime

I had wrestled my opponent and won many times. But somewhere out there, the monster still lurked, slowly wilting in the shadows of my mind. The time had come to finish the job. I knew where the final battle would be. As circumstance would have it, I was going there. I was going back to Whistler, with a hammer and last nail in my hands.

https://skimap.org/skiareas/view/28

It's December 2023 in the Pacific Northwest. Haley (partner and wife) and her family are in town for the skiing and x-mas the following week. On Sunday the 17th, we ride up the ski to sky highway and make landfall in Whistler.

25% of the terrain is open. Sloppy, spring like snow. A minefield of rock bogeys. Freezing rain is dripping on the lower mountain, snow flurries wafting on the upper mountain. The low hanging clouds, rain, and misty haze in the air made seeing what you were skiing an adventure.

It brought me back to the low visibility conditions I succumbed to 6 years ago. And like a spider from behind a dusty bookshelf, my opponent crept out - with wry look that said - maybe I have another trick up my sleeve. I gathered myself. I could beat it again, I had to - the conditions wouldn't dictate my fate this time. Let's go Nick, feel the groove!

A fastidious and happy go lucky ski crew, we marched into the fray. Those first days were objectively mediocre skiing. Lots of feeling around the mountain using skis and squinted eyes. Getting our snow legs back under us, goggle wipes used and abused, we schlepped around the hill with waterproof gear and smiles.

But for me? Those were great days. Every turn, chute, run, lift ride was a hard won victory against the mental monster who had plagued me for so long. By the end, I put that last nail in the monster's coffin. Shaking the water off on the gondola ride down the the base, I thought good riddance.

On the last day, the weather gods answered our prayers. We were blessed with fresh snow and sun. The only thing left to do? Wiggle of course! This time, with wide open eyes.

A Renaissance of Sorts

The most unexpected part of this whole thing? I had somehow become a much better skier after the injury (and recovery). More purposeful and patient, smoother and more instinctive.

Chicken or egg, I enjoyed it way more than I had before. I appreciated the small details of how the snow moved, how parts of my skis felt, the texture of the trees, the composition of the runs, how my body transferred energy into the skis.

From 2018-2023, I became a skier and I loved it. Trip by trip, mountain by mountain, and run by run - I conquered my opponent. And had a blast doing it.

Bridger Bowl

Alta / Snowbird

Killington / Pico Mountain

Red Mountain

Schweitzer

Whistler

Big Sky

Banff Sunshine

Lake Louise

Sunday River

Cypress Mountain

Buck Hill

Copper Mountain / Mary Jane

To be continued....

One of the great joys in life, for me at least, is to extract insights from one experience or domain that can be applied broadly. Skiing is one of the rare experiences that never fails to deliver in this capacity.

Here are a few life lessons I've taken from skiing: