Toy Story times on the bunny slope
At the bottom of the bunny slope last Saturday I waited to see how Ray would do on alpine skis his first time out this season.
Last season, he would have hugged a tree and refused to glide down if that were an option.
Instead, Ray, 13, met more than his match in Mr. Mike Mathisen — a jovial, veteran adaptive ski instructor and adaptive ski program developer for kids and adults like Ray, for people who need extra support to find freedom in this swift sport.
Given how alpine skiing challenges all kinds of newbies, I couldn’t get my hopes up.
But we booked Ray then for three private lessons, each one two hours long with a hot cocoa break in the lodge. And during the last lesson in April, Ray came to life on his skis despite the mashed potato-quality snow.
The process to that breakthrough reminded me of the beloved toys — Woody, Buzz Lightyear, and the rest — in Disney Pixar’s four Toy Story films who transform from their crumpled positions of discardment to life whenever their child sleeps or leaves the room.
Maybe it took that — me leaving Ray’s space — for him to wake up in this wintery world animated instead of frozen with fear.
So, there I stood on my skis at the bottom of the bunny slope wondering if it would happen again on our first time out.
Would Mr. Mike’s lessons from 2022 stick in 2023?
From Ray’s slumped place in the snow at the top, my husband dusted off his bunched up jacket and helped him to his feet on the skis.
Then, Ray rose to the occasion by the miracle of muscle memory.
Through his tinted goggles my boy with special needs related to Down syndrome lifted his eyes.
I could hear Mr. Mike’s raspy voice from last year calling to him: “Look up, Ray! Look up!”
So, instead of focusing on other beginner skiers wobbling, crashing, or struggling to get back on their skis downslope, Ray looked across the valley at the Sawatch Range.
Next, he lifted his arms to shoulder height from his sides without holding poles — the second critical position in Mr. Mike’s learn-to-ski playbook.
Ray stood that way as if at the helm of an ocean-going vessel like Kate Winslet — the star of the 1997 blockbuster film, “Titanic” — who extended her arms in a Roman Cross as she stood at the helm of the ship in the iconic “I’m flying” scene.
A moment later my boy, trailed by my husband, skied and stayed in control.
He assumed the “French fries” position to go faster past trees and the “pizza wedge” or “snow plow” position to slow down and avoid hitting them.
As our older two sons zipped down steeper slopes above us, our trio caught the Magic Carpet Lifts conveyor belt to the bunny slope top for another run together at one of Colorado’s oldest alpine ski resorts — Ski Cooper in Leadville, World War II training grounds for the U.S. Army’s 10th Mountain Division based then at nearby Camp Hale.
Success inspired Ray to ski almost non-stop until the resort closed. And the brilliant reflective light over San Isabel National Forest that day transformed him into a silhouette, into someone I could see better.
He stood out like a black diamond sparkling on white velvet.
But like diamonds, people are made more than discovered. Fact is, Ray looked like a wooden marionette at first — not a toy animated with the suppleness of life by Hollywood-sized imagination.
Mr. Mike’s homemade harness equipment, something he dubbed “The Leadville Redneck Special,” helped him guide Ray safely down the mountain without over supporting.
“I like it because it doesn’t tether the skier, it tethers the skis,” Mr. Mike explained.
He designed his equipment with two 10-foot long nylon tow straps, each latched by carabiners to a 1-inch C clamp on the student’s ski tips. Then, he ran several loops of stretchy parachute cord through a 5-inch length of small diameter PVC pipe and secured the loops sticking out on either end to the C clamp.
Sure enough, Mike operating The Leadville Redneck Special from behind in the initial lessons helped Ray feel as free as he could be until he felt ready to fledge and fly down the slope solo.
Now, Ray would ski until dark if he could — a sure sign that it’s time to book more lessons with Mr. Mike before the snow melts.
So, when we spotted this expert instructor helping other kids begin their journey we shouted out our appreciation: “Hey, Mr. Mike! We’ll be back for more lessons! Thank you so much for getting Ray to ski!”
He looked up, smiled, and helped me cherish the power of Ray’s buy-in as we face more mountains waiting back home on the flats in Erie.
“I didn’t do it!” Mr. Mike hollered. “He did it!”