From the bunny slopes to taking on black diamond runs

Special To The Washington Post

At 40, I thought my daredevil days were behind me – what could top the insanity of growing up in Miami in the ‘80s? Then I discovered skiing, a sport I had sworn off when a boyfriend abandoned me on a black diamond run (I was solid bunny-slope material) in the ‘90s.

Eighteen years later, in Park City, Utah, an instructor helped me kick my terror to the tree line and tap into the bliss of coasting down groomers with my mind entirely focused on the matter at hand – mastering the next turn and reducing the frequency of faceplants. No worrying about work or my kids. The to-do list loop was miraculously switched off. I was hooked.

A few years in, thanks to dozens of lessons (critical) and investments in boots as well as custom insoles (also critical), I’ve mastered balance and carving and begun to enact what could be described as a middle-aged spin on “shredding the gnar.”

While friends are phasing out serious skiing (“It’s so dangerous – let’s go to the Caribbean”), I’m test-driving more challenging terrain, despite the fact that I am a so-so skier. The satisfaction of tackling an unfamiliar piste and then enjoying a well-earned chalice of wine in a cozy cabin somehow outweighs my fear of crushing a body part.

Here are some of my adventures:

ASPEN, COLORADO

Aspen is glamorous. So, naturally, I wanted to whiz down Aspen Mountain with the lithe, beautiful people. But first, ski school. I worked with a pro on “athletic stance,” a novelty for a gal who has never engaged in sports. And curbed the tendency to lean back, butt over boots (as if squatting over a toilet), the classic I-don’t-want-to-zoom-out-of-control posture known as “back-seat skiing.” I quickly graduated to the steeper stuff. But agile I was not.

On my second visit, I took on upper/lower body separation, which means keeping the shoulders facing down the mountain while turning. To deter my instinct to turn up into the hill, my savvy instructor, Annie, had me pretend to hold a drinks tray while only my legs and feet glided from side to side. The visual cue of not spilling martinis, my favorite cocktail, clicked. Suddenly I had a semblance of grace.

Speaking of booze, lunching at the legendary Cloud Nine was a goal that year. Each day, a rowdy party involving fondue and champagne-fueled table-dancing unfolded at 11,000 feet. The hitch? I had to ski down afterward. I did. And that descent, down a partial black diamond run, is a prized memory.

After a few seasons of crushed toes and aching knees, I invested in my own boots. Buying ski boots is not like waltzing into DSW for a pair of heels.

The process takes hours, sometimes days. At Gorsuch Ski in Aspen, a boot fitter used 3-D scanning technology to measure my feet – length, forefoot width, instep height – and discovered that significant pronation caused my ankles to collapse in standard rental boots. A Head Raptor boot ($700) was selected to match my foot’s internal dimensions. Then a custom insole ($200) was constructed to biomechanically align my feet, knees and hips. I winced at the expense. But the return on investment was immediate. Once my shins connected with the front of the boot when I flexed, everything became more fluid.

JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING

Engage my core? What core? I had unwittingly just traversed a “quickie” black diamond run en route to the intermediate area, and trepidation oozed from my too-loose limbs. My instructor was going on about activating the deep abdominals to improve stability, but the words ricocheted right off my helmet. After the birth of my second child, I had ceased thinking about my abdomen. The notion that a power quadrant lurked beneath my mom pooch seemed absurd.

We did some drills to “zip up my abs,” simultaneously squeezing my butt and sucking my bellybutton toward my spine. That micro-maneuver was like a shock absorber. I now had stamina in powder and bumps, a good thing since Jackson Hole’s craggy, aggressive topography is notoriously hardcore. Later that day, moguls formed from fresh snowfall. I sucked in, recited, “Stomach in – turn!” and whipped over the bumps without pause. Taking on those moguls was a major milestone.

PORTILLO, CHILE

When I told friends I was headed to Portillo, they were confused. Isn’t that the offseason training ground for the U.S. ski team? Then they asked if my insurance plan included medevac coverage. (It did.) Of course, I wasn’t going to attempt experts-only terrain like Roca Jack or the Super C Couloir, a half-day endeavor requiring a two-hour backcountry hike and a more than 5,000-foot descent down a gully. My plan was to explore the small but mighty intermediate terrain – Andes lite, if you will.

The canary yellow time warp of a resort with only 123 rooms, one restaurant (staffed by red-jacketed waiters), a ‘70s-era discoteca and absolutely nothing within walking distance is revered by passionate skiers, many of whom return the same week each year.

This was steep terrain. I froze at the lip of Plateau, a run above the tree line at 9,450 feet. Once the instructor coaxed me from the ledge, I skied poorly. On the next run, I centered myself with mantras. Reciting takeaway skills from ski lessons (I jot down notes in my phone each session) allows me to focus on movement, not fear: “Shins to tongue” (aggressively flexing so shins connect with the tongue of the boot), “Hips over boots” (solid athletic stance), “Zipper down the mountain” (keeping the upper body still as the legs and feet initiate turns). By midmorning, I managed to descend without killing myself or careening into Laguna del Inca, the shimmering gray-blue lake at the base.

The next day, I was confident enough to try the fabled “va et vient” or “slingshot” lift that drags standing skiers up to extreme terrain. The dismount required dexterity, placing skis, one at a time, perpendicular to the fall line while holding the tow bar.