Mounting Sajo

The first time I ever went skiing was in January 2003 with my church’s college ministry for a weeklong adventure in the snow and slopes of Colorado’s famed Durango Mountain Resort. Though I had taken ice skating lessons in sixth and seventh grades, I had yet to master balancing on two thin blades—let alone strapping flat, plastic sticks to my feet and pointing me down a mountain! I was non-too-prepared for the frightening speed I picked up as I barreled down the slopes of the Rocky Mountains that winter. At least with ice skates, you stay on level ground.

Since my terrifying first experience, I have mounted skis four more times: once at Sugar Mountain in North Carolina, and now three times in Korea. By no means am I an expert, but now I consider myself a “comfortable novice”—still a newbie, just a little drier behind the ears. My progress on skis seems a vast improvement since my days at Durango when I was so out of control that I slid up an embankment to kiss a tree with my knee, and so mad at myself for not succeeding that I yelled at my college leader on the mountain for making me take a second ski lesson. Eight years later, I’m still nervous about dismounting the lift, but manage to stay upright far more than I am prone.

Considering my newfound skills in the sport, when Krista suggested we ring in the New Year with an adventure at Sajo Ski Resort near Chungju, I felt I was up for the challenge. She had never been skiing, she confessed, and with my four nearly successful attempts I knew I was confident enough to lead her through the basics. Never would I have thought on the bunnies of the Rockies that one day I could call myself an unofficial ski instructor. My, how my college group would have been proud!

“You put your boots on like this,” I told Krista once we had left my ARC (Korea’s rendition of a green card) and Krista’s camera as insurance for our skis and bibs. I pried open the plastic-coated lip and slipped my foot into a compartment one size too small. It was then that the enormity of the task I had just taken on hit me in the face: As I struggled with my footwear, my mind kept drawing blanks as to how to teach my companion the rules of a sport I barely had grasp of myself. I felt at that moment as ill fit for a ski instructor as my boots had been for my feet.

Returning the shoes for a larger pair, I discovered that the skis given to me weren’t fit correctly to my new set of footwear. As I showed Krista how to attach boot to ski, I stared at the gap on my right that should have been flush. “That’s problematic,” I thought to myself. “I’ll have to go back and have them readjust it.” But since we were so close to the ski lift—and by this time it was already 2:30, with just two hours to ski—I let the matter drop.

The two of us managed to scoot ourselves, cross-country style, from the entrance of the resort to a line for the bunny slope, which was twenty rows thick and three people wide. We chatted amiably while awaiting our turn up the slopes, adding our friendly English to the chorus of pleasant Korean clatter around us. As we stood there balanced on our rented skis, I desperately tried again to remember what came next, dread twisting in my stomach like a writhing snake: Now it was crunch time.

Soon the severity of my boot-ski situation bared its unpleasant head. While trying to show Krista how to “pop” snow off one ski by flipping it upwards, my right ski popped itself off my foot. Conditions only worsened when we caught the lift. Just as the two of us caught the lift up the mountainside, my lose ski popped off again and the Korean manning the ride had to run after us to hand it to me—exactly what I had been afraid of while in line. As there was no way to safely reattach my ski without losing something or falling off my seat, the only thing I could do was hold both poles and ski with one hand and the safety bar with the other. This meant, of course, that at the most crucial stage of Krista’s ski-learning thus far, I would out of commission.

“You have to scoot all the way to the edge of the seat,” I told her as we neared the dismount. “You have to ski down the small slope at the end of the lift.” Krista barely had time to ingest my descriptions before it was time for her to slide down the embankment by herself—and for me to helplessly round the pulley circuit heading back down the mountain.

“Jam-shi-man-yo!” I called to the attendants. “Wait!” They hurriedly stopped the lift and quickly ran to my rescue as I sat there panting, mere inches from the slope’s drop-off.

Once on solid ground, I walked my skis close to where another attendant stood helping Krista to her feet. “Never point your skis down the mountain,” I instructed as she gathered her wits. “Always stay perpendicular. The goal is to make a zigzag.”

The ski lift had deposited us onto a small, nearly level feeder slope peopled with Sajo’s beginners, which led to the “real” bunnies—the last leg of an intermediate run higher up the mountain. Within a few feet of each other, Krista and I slowly crept our way from lift embankment to the feeder’s mouth, there to attempt crossing the fast-moving current of intermediate skiers.

This was the other thing I had dreaded while still on level ground: maneuvering into the flowing traffic of the bunny slope. Thus far I had been behind Krista, cheering her on while secretly trying to control my own somewhat uncontrollable skis. If I were going slow enough, and were on a flat enough run, I knew I could keep my speed an even pace. But out in the open, with faster moving obstacles, all bets were off.

“Can you cross over there?” I asked Krista when we had made it to the lip of the feeder; I pointed to an embankment on the far right side of the larger slope.

“You go ahead and I’ll follow you,” Krista replied. Exactly what I had hoped she wouldn't say. At her request, however, I slowly took the plunge.

In the sport of skiing a term is used when a skier falls fantastically down the mountain, leaving a trail of gear and valuables behind him: a yard sale. I was famous for my yard sales at Durango—and this was no exception. I had picked up too much speed and found myself slipping out of control. My rented equipment littered the snow as I tumbled stomach-first one hundred yards down the bunnies. Thanks to my right ski’s gap, it landed several tens of yards above me.

As I was falling down the mountain, Krista courageously tried to follow my lead, met with another fall of her own. I watched from farther below as members of the Korean ski patrol came by one-at-a-time to help Krista back onto her feet. Each in turn silently pantomimed a ski lesson for her: Pull yourself up like this. No, no, don’t pop your ski off. Point your skis like this. “Edg-ee,” one of them had said. Use your edges to turn.

I was feeling less and less like a ski instructor, unofficial or not, the longer I stayed on the mountain. Words continued to fail me and I was unsure how to avoid another demonstration of my limited skills. “I hope my instructions have been helpful,” I told Krista as soon as she rejoined me.

“You just forgot the part about the edges,” she sighed. “You’re supposed to push on your edges to turn.” I nodded my understanding and slowly, quietly, we began yet another descent down the slopes, me trailing behind to help her in the event of another fall.

After another string of falls and subsequent successful attempts to pull her back onto her feet, my pupil stopped. “I’m terrified, Jenn,” she said. She stood there perpendicular to the bunny’s incline, paralyzed in her ski boots.

It was like watching my own thoughts from eight years ago play out on someone else’s lips. “I’m mad at myself and exhausted from all of my falls,” she confessed. “I want to just take off my skis and slide down the mountain.” I told her that she certainly had a right to feel that way, yet needn't give up quite yet. She might not forgive herself if she didn't try at least one last time. Deliberately, she formed her skis into a wide A and started her run.

It was her last run of the day--and arguably the most successful. One hundred yards from the end of the bunny slopes, she took control of her skis and coasted all the way to level ground. Assah! 아싸! I stood on a side embankment watching proudly as she glided safely off the mountain.

Her face was beaming as I approached her moments later, herself exhausted but triumphant. “I’ll do this again in about a month,” she told me. “It'll take that long to fully recover.” Confidently we scooted to the edge of the snow, popped off our skis, and deposited them back with Sajo's attendants. This had been a glorious day.

There was another reason that made the day distinguished: Attempting to ski had been on “The List,” a group of personal goals for Krista to accomplish. It was only after we were tucked safely back in her apartment and I read The List on her wall that I realized the importance of the day. I may not have been the most well-versed ski instructor, but going skiing with her had thus helped my friend fulfill something purposeful in her life. And that felt better than any sort of accolade from friends back home.