More reader tales of first-timers on the slopes

More reader tales of first-timers on the slopes:

About 35 years ago, I was talked into trying snow skiing by my college buddies. After quickly mastering the bunny hill, I advanced to the big slopes. Jenny was monitoring the ski lift, which took two skiers up at a time. Once in a while someone missed their chair and Jenny lashed into them with words not allowed here.

Early in the afternoon I thought I had it all down pretty good. That's when disaster usually strikes me. It was our turn to move into position for the next chair to come around. I moved forward, but my buddy didn't. It wasn't really our turn and two people were ready for the next chair. Jenny screamed at me to move over, which I did, but my forward motion put us face to face. Our bodies met, the zippers of our jackets magically connected, and Jenny swore at me at the top of her lungs from just inches away.

By the time we got our jackets separated, about 20 empty chairs were heading up the hill. About 40 anxious skiers let me know what a jerk I was, which was true, no doubt about it.

Marilyn Jones, West Seattle

While in college, I went with two girlfriends to Snoqualmie Summit. Only one of us had real experience up on the hill, and she insisted we head up a black diamond run. I did my best to conceal my fear, and after stumbling clumsily onto the lift after my two pals, I found myself chattering nervously to an older gentleman next to me. "Yeah, this is my first time up this run!" I yammered excitedly. "It is?" He asked, incredulous. "Oh yeah, we don't care, my friends and I dare each other to do this kind of thing all the time! In fact, they're right up in front of us, right ... " My voice trailed off as I pointed to their chair. My friends were gone. In lieu of them, an empty parka (my parka, which I had lent to one of them) hung from the swinging seat.

I looked at the guy. I looked at the chair. I looked at the guy. I looked at the chair.

(Unhurt but bruised and embarrassed, they lay below us on the snow.)

Seven Dunsmore, Vashon

My "friends" persuaded me to accompany them on a night-ski adventure at Pine Knob, outside of Detroit. They assured me I did not need lessons; they would teach me all I needed to know. Unaware I was petrified of heights, my "friends" scoffed at the bunny hill and joined me on the chairlift, rocking the car as it climbed the highest hill there. Chattering from both fright and cold at the top, I received my lesson: "All you need to know how to do is point your skis together and snowplow." Given a push, I snowplowed as instructed, straight into the snow-making machine!

The pellets stuck like glue to my hair, jeans, knit coat and mittens, turning me into a human Popsicle. Kindergartners laughed as they whizzed around my icicle form. I retreated to the lounge, forming a small pond below my seat as the ice pellets slowly defrosted.

Lisa M. Hammel, Seattle

About 30 years ago, my husband and I signed up for a beginner's middle-age ski school class, sponsored through the Times. My husband was screaming down the "bunny hill," having trouble turning; he plowed hard into a large snow bank. At impact he heard a popping sound. "Oh, no," he thought, "I've broken something." Trying each joint, and finding all in working order, he discovered he had ripped out the crotch of his pants. With nothing covering him from the cold he wore his ski glove like a fig leaf. He hid his embarrassment from the gals, and didn't want to miss his practice, but his runs became "shockingly" cold.

Carol Paige

When I was 17, some of my friends decided to teach me to ski. After an hour of falling and floundering around the bunny hill, they took me up the lift for some "real skiing." The line was disorganized, we were separated, and their last words to me as I (barely) got onto the chair upright were, "Turn left when you get off!"

I was never very good at right and left. I turned right, after falling off the chair and having to roll out from under the next skier. I saw the two black diamonds, but no one had bothered to explain what black diamonds meant. As I leaned forward to look over the edge of the initial drop I thought, "This is the easy run??!!" After waiting awhile for my friends (who were looking for me on the novice slope to the left) I started down. It took almost two hours of sliding, falling, crawling (both forward and backward) and occasionally skiing to get down the relatively short run. Meanwhile, my pals had searched everywhere for me, but the one place they were sure I was not was on the expert hill. Since then I've learned to ski passably, and to be more careful about right and left.

Wendy Meyers, Mercer Island

We bought our son, Sayre, a bright red ski jacket when he was 7 years old so we would be able to spot him on the slopes easily. Imagine our horror when he slipped out of the chairlift at 25 feet. My husband was in the chair behind our daughter and son as the lift climbed up the hill at the Summit at Snoqualmie. My daughter says she turned to look and Sayre was gone. She looked down and saw a red blot in the snowbank. Dad never felt so helpless. He was almost going to jump, but luckily it was close to the end of the line.

Sayre survived his ordeal with a couple of scratches and was back on the slopes the next week.

The only complaint he had was that the ambulance didn't sound the siren!

Janis and Greg Peralta, Seattle

When I turned 50 (some years ago!) I decided that I needed to learn to ski. I signed up for lessons in a class sponsored by Frederick & Nelson, Bellevue. My first time down the hill, after barely mastering the rope tow and completely intimidated by confident 4- and 5-year-olds whizzing by me, I began my descent. The class instructor stood at the bottom of the hill insisting we SMILE on the way down. My memory is that smiling during that first terrifying trip down the hill was even harder than remembering to keep my skis parallel!

Nancy Paris, Coupeville

The members of our immediate family have been lifetime residents of Seattle and I have skied since early high school years. As my three daughters grew up they each learned to ski and became very proficient at the sport. My story relates to my oldest daughter as she began her skiing adventure. At the time I was a part-time ski instructor at Crystal Mountain, after I had her practice walking on skis we started on the rope tow. I was clear to to advise her to grab the rope slowly, she grabbed, was jerked forward, fell, broke her leg. She looked up at me and said, "Thanks, Dad, for the ski lesson."

Remember, before you have the experience of "My first time down the hill," you must get up the hill.

Walter H. Hageman Jr., Seattle

Our second date — in a caravan of ski enthusiasts from a Philadelphia area ski club traveling to Vermont for the first ski weekend of the season.

He was a black diamond guy. I was less than a green circle gal, rope tow experience only. He didn't need to know that, I decided.

We arrived at the slopes on a snowy morning. He dropped me off at the "bunny slope" chairlift (my level of expertise, was he guessing?), as he headed off to the black diamond runs with other adrenalin-oozing black diamond guys. "I'll be back soon," he yelled. I believed him.

An hour later he returned. With no chairlift experience, I hadn't moved. He found me standing in the same spot with six inches of snow on my head and tears in my eyes, still holding my skis.

He did not leave my side the rest of the weekend. I got lessons, I got better, I eventually got a husband! We're still skiing together after over 38 years.

Norma Line, Bellevue

My first time down the hill was with my best friend in 1972. After our first lesson, we headed for the slopes. I caught the first chairlift — my friend failed getting on. She caught the next one. When I looked back all I saw was terror in her eyes, and I thought, "Please, please don't jump."

Get ready, ski tips up, unload. I tumbled off the lift screaming, sliding down the landing while trying to get out of the way.

During our attempt to ski, my friend finally just took off her skis, threw them over her shoulder and started hiking. A ski patrolman came by, yelling, "Lady, put your skis on, you can't walk down the mountain." Her reply "The hell I can't, I damn sure can't ski down." He shook his head as he skied away. My thoughts: "If I ever get off this mountain alive, I am going to live life my way."

Rita Walker, Bremerton