I Learned How to Ski Park at 50. Here’s How It Went.

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By the time I clicked the “Buy Now” button on Amazon for butt pads, I was already black, blue, and dejected. I was practicing for the Freestyle Level 1 exam through PSIA, an exam I had been shrugging off for years with a cavalier “how hard could it be?” attitude. Turns out, it would be three of the most difficult days of my lifelong ski career.

I grew up in a ski-obsessed New Hampshire family and started ski racing early. One thing New Englanders all develop is an ability to use our edges. I moved to Vail after college to coach at Ski Club Vail, and I had to learn how to break out of my racer stance and reduce my edge angle to ski powder (this was in the mid-’90s when there was copious amounts of powder). I landed an internship at SKI Magazine in Boulder, got hired as an editor, and worked on the ski instruction beat, which led me on a certification path through PSIA.

I’ve watched skiing evolve over the past three decades—from the growing women’s market to fat skis, to the evolution of rocker, to the popularity of the park and pipe. In full disclosure, I’ve been annoyed lately with the young skiers seeking out every side hit down the slope and I’ve judged their narrow stance, hands practically in their pockets, shins rarely touching the front of the boot. As a race coach and ski instructor, I have an ideal picture in my mind of the highest standard of skiing. That’s Mikaela Shiffrin and Ted Ligety. It’s what I aspire to. All this to say that I admit that I didn’t judge the skills of freestyle skiers to be on par with racers. That has certainly changed.

I started preparing for my freestyle exam mid-winter last season. I completed my online coursework, read the technical manual, and could tell you the difference between an Ollie and Nollie, a Safety and Japan Grab—even though I hadn’t performed any of them. I went out to practice on the beginner terrain park at my local hill, pretty sure that the bulk of my exam would be in this area. I had hit boxes before, but straight on, landing forward. The exam trick list included sliding a box left and right foot forward and coming off the box forward and switch.

I don’t own any twin tips, so I borrowed my daughters Atomic Bent Chetler 110s. I rode the magic carpet and headed down to the box. The first time I tried to slide the box on my natural side, I fell on my hip. A beginner riding up the magic carpet asked if I was okay. That’s when it sunk in that 1) I will be humbled multiple times and 2) I’m in over my head. I fell more times than a toddler learning to walk. I hit my tailbone so hard once that I literally saw stars and then had to roll out of bed the next morning. That’s when I bought the butt pads.

Luckily, I was able to borrow a pair of Atomic Bent 90s, which were way easier to maneuver than my daughter’s powder skis. I found I was pretty good in the air and could do a grab and left and right 180s, all tricks I needed to execute. My best trick was actually old school—every self-respecting skier born in the ’70s can do a Spread Eagle, so at least I had that going for me.

I could ski switch and do a tip and tail butter, though it was more gritty vegan butter than Kerrygold. Fortunately for me, my small mountain had a small halfpipe, so I felt pretty good about my Ally-oop and air to fakie. Did I lose you yet? I had no idea that my big nemesis would be something far less intimidating.

The key to mastering the box slide is to neutralize your edges. But here’s the thing: I have spent the past five decades using those edges that I honed on the Ice Coast. True, I learned how to release the edges in the western powder, but I still always had more weight on the downhill ski. I learned the hard way (and I mean very hard) that you can’t slide a box like you carve a turn. I had to unlearn multiple years and millions of turns and embrace the gorilla-like freestyle stance (those low hands!) and try to land on flat skis.

That’s when I realized that even the eight-year-old sliding the box was better than me. These kids have learned to butter, smear, pop, grab, and land with incredible balance. And I was the old dog literally trying to learn new tricks among Gen Zers and Alphas with mad skills.

I knew I was in trouble on the morning of the first day of the exam when the examiner took us to the bigger terrain park under a chairlift. Looking longingly at the magic carpet, I made a comment that I thought we would be in the little park. He said, “everyone downplays the freestyle exam.” Oh shit, I thought. I’m going to fail and I’m going to break an arm.

I was the oldest one in the group, with the median age slightly older than my 19-year-old daughter. But we were all in the throes of exam anxiety together. I bonded with two women close to my daughter’s age, who supported me and told me I was a badass. We made it through two and a half days of teaching and performing movement analysis—all under the pressure of being watched by our examiner as he made cryptic notes about us.

For me, it all came down to the final day. I had to slide a box, which I’d only actually executed on my “natural” side, or “natty side,” as the cool kids say. My first of three attempts to slide the box with my left foot forward resulted in hitting my head and having some guy on the lift yell down at me to mansplain how to slide a box. The humiliation was worse than the whiplash. The group encouraged me, giving me tips. On the second attempt, I started to get reared off and tried to correct myself, which resulted in falling off the box.

I hiked back up for my final try. I was sore, dehydrated, and thoroughly dejected. Along with bruises, I was pretty sure I had pulled my oblique muscle from all the Ollies and Nollies. But looking down at the box, I knew that this was the moment where I’d pass or fail the exam. One of the women I’d come to really admire pointed out that Led Zeppelin was playing in the base area. It was the opening riff of “The Ocean,” and all of a sudden I realized why young people like to listen to music in the park. It relaxed me. I took a deep breath. I felt my shoulders sink down below my neck. I got into the freestyle position. I started my approach. The trees were moving by me in slow motion, “Oh, oh yeah” playing in the background. I popped onto the box, I landed on flat skis, my downhill hand pointing toward the end of the box where I was looking. I could feel the plastic surface under my bases as I slid the length of the box and came off switch. I pumped my fist, and the crowd erupted in applause. Actually, it was only my group cheering me on, but it was an amazing feeling of accomplishment. Even the examiner gave me a grin.

I passed my exam, as did everyone else in my group. We had all been through an emotional, mental, and physical battle together. My examiner called me a warrior. My daughter told me that I might be a little old to get hurt like that. It did cost me money for an x-ray of my knee (patellar tendonitis), a chiropractic adjustment (my spine sounded like a typewriter), and two massages. But I was a warrior, and I powered through humiliation, pain, and the bravery it took as a middle-aged woman to learn something difficult and new. And I skied away with a newfound respect for the ever-evolving ski and snowboard industry, for the baggy-pants park rats, and the skills that the younger generations seem to so naturally have. I might not slide a box on my un-natty side ever again, but you might see me do a Critical Grab off a jump or 180 Tip Butter. I guess you can learn new tricks no matter how old you are.