February 8, 2000 — Ah, the odd ironies of life.
I grew up in Pennsylvania, a short drive from the popular ski resorts of the Pocono Mountains. It was the type of place where a couple of inches of snow didn’t guarantee a day without school or a major blow to the town’s bread and milk reserve.
Snow was just part of everyone’s life.
But not until 26 years later, not until relocating to Georgia — to the Deep South — did I first experience the alpine sport of snowboarding.
Snow sports. Georgia. The two just don’t seem to go together.
When I moved here 17 months ago, I was told by many to try the boiled peanuts, the barbecue, the sweet tea.
However, from no one did I hear: “Welcome to the South. Dude, you must be stoked to check out our sweet slopes!”
But that’s exactly what I did Friday afternoon, driving an hour north of Gainesville — past several opportunities to purchase boiled peanuts, barbecue and sweet tea — to Sky Valley, home of Georgia’s only ski resort.
Sky Valley Resort is barely in Georgia. It rests atop the Appalachian Mountains in the state’s northeastern corner, almost straddling the Georgia-North Carolina border. In fact, the windy road that leads to the resort travels in and out of North Carolina four times.
It’s still Georgia, however, and sometimes that makes the presence of snow — important when it comes to snowboarding — iffy. Not the case recently.
While most of us were busy scraping ice off our cars, sidewalks and loved ones during the deep freeze of late January, the folks at Sky Valley were working around the clock making snow — lots of it. Sky Valley has two trails open with bases of 30 to 60 inches of snow, some of the best conditions the resort has seen in years.
I hastily arranged my snowboarding lesson, knowing full well that 60-degree weather would soon return and melt away my Southern snow, my chance to try snowboarding.
“Have you ever skied before?” asked Joey Walstrum as I laced up my snowboarding boots. The 26-year-old was chosen to serve as my instructor on Friday and he was trying to size up what kind of hand he’d been dealt.
“Once. Poorly,” I responded.
“Skateboarded?” he continued.
“No,” I answered apologetically.
“Surf?”
“Uh, no.”
“OK.” He smiled and patted me on the back, consoling me ahead of time for the rough day that he knew awaited me.
“It’s not easy,” he said. “Some people pick it up like that. For others, it takes a year. Some people just give up because they can’t figure it out at all.”
So off to the Pokey (or beginner) slope we went. Walstrum went over the basics: keep knees bent, shift weight slightly to front foot, raise toes or heels to turn. He also warned me not to “catch the edge” of my board under the snow. That can lead to some nasty spills.
It was just after noon and we were some of the first people on the slopes. Walstrum tapped the tightly packed snow with his foot. “This is not very forgiving snow right now,” he said. “Ready?”
Sure. Why not.
I locked my feet into my board’s bindings. A slight nudge and I was off, speeding out of control in a straight line down the hill.
“How do I stop?” I yelled back to Walstrum. Before he could answer, I found out for myself. I spun around and landed hard on my back in a puff of snow.
“There you go,” Walstrum hollered down at me, trying unsuccessfully to hold back his laughter. “That’s the easiest way.”
A few more trial runs resulted in a few more falls.
“You’re gonna fall — that’s how you learn,” said Walstrum, who “converted” from skiing to snowboarding two years ago. “So, are you ready to try that thing over there?”
He was pointing to the Panorama slope, an intermediate run that, to me, seemed a huge step up from the Pokey. The steady train of green lift chairs slowly ascended to a 3,500-foot peak.
Sure. Why not.
Before I could make my attack on the mountain, however, I had to negotiate the tricky task of mounting and dismounting the ski lift. Getting to the lift was part of the problem. On flat surfaces snowboarders ideally maneuver about like skateboarders — the front foot locked into the board, the rear pushing along on the ground.
I never mastered that, instead dragging my “front” foot and the board behind me as if my ankle was chained to a cinder block. I schlepped my way into the path of the oncoming chair and fell into the seat. That was the easy part. Getting off was a different story, and I only managed to do it once without falling.
“The snow looks good,” said Walstrum, as we sat atop the slope and tightened our bindings. “It looks like it has loosened up.”
For that I was thankful. My afternoon was an endless series of backward, forward and sideways falls. Sometimes it was a planned, gradual tumble. Other times I snipered, and suddenly disappeared from sight. Getting up was often a chore, as well. I’d raise my body to a semi-crouched position, then the board would begin to slide down the hill … with my rear end sliding along beside it.
Eventually I would get up — all the way — and go. And, each time, eventually I would fall. I was like a baby learning to walk. Go. Fall. Go. Fall. Gradually the time between “go” and “fall” got longer and longer.
But never too long. Learning to snowboard is a liberating experience. At the same time, however, it’s a humbling one.
“I know it’s frustrating,” Walstrum said as I sat before him after a spill, my hair, face and body covered in snow. “It’s very frustrating. I was there. Everybody’s been there.”
That’s what makes it easier to keep going, the knowledge that you are not alone. Just then, another rookie ‘boarder appeared out of nowhere and landed in a heavy heap close by.
“We’d better move,” Walstrum said. “Always watch out for other people. They’ll hit you.
“This is Georgia. Nobody knows how to ski here.”