MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Winter 2019

130 ML BLUE WINTER 2019 BACK PAGE words :: Colin Field illustration :: Dave Barnes The true struggle of teaching your kid to ski begins on the tailgate: jamming feet into tiny ski boots, all the while your kid screaming, “I don’t wanna ski!” You search frantically for mitts, balaclava, lift passes. Then, cramming helmet and goggles over an uncooperative head triggers the dreaded result: a massive snot-filled sneeze (how can their head hold that much mucus?) that ruins their goggles, helmet, balaclava and of course, your sleeves. The struggle gets real as you hobble through the parking lot; skis and poles, dangling precariously, while the cat-like mind of your toddler gets distracted by shiny pieces of ice scattered amongst the potholes, moving cars and incoming bus groups. It’s a stress akin to a real-life game of Frogger. And of course, as soon as you’re in line for the Magic Carpet comes the next inevitable test of patience: “I gotta go poo…” But you persevere. You trek to the washrooms to undress, wipe, redress (quite a feat in ski boots on a slippery floor, all the while asking, “are you sure you don’t need to pee?) and get back in line (which is now seven times longer than it was 45 minutes ago). And that’s when the analogy hits you; because let’s face it, comparing yourself to Greek mythology’s Sisyphus is easy. The sinner was condemned to an eternity of rolling a boulder uphill then watching it roll back down again. This eternal punishment is going down in a place called Tartarus: a deep abyss used as a dungeon of torment and suffering. It sounds, for lack of a better term, like Hell. But Hell isn’t really comparable to taking your toddler skiing on the bunny hill. Or is it? Because that’s when the pain shoots downward from your lower back. Sharp pangs scream down your butt cheek and scrape at the back of your knee. A fist-sized knot punches you between the shoulder blades. But there’s nothing you can do. The sack of potatoes you’ve got between your legs goes limp, then stiff, then distracted. You can’t rest for a second. Dodging out-of-control teenagers in jeans, other parents blindly sliding backwards and random sneaker-clad tourists taking selfies mid-hill, you’re as excited for an Ibuprofen as your kid is for Christmas. Why do we so dog-headedly persevere with this project, when the only bright spot for the toddler involved is the promise of a hot chocolate? Why not skip the whole rigamarole and go straight to the lodge? The true difference between Sisyphus and parents teaching their kids to ski, is that we miraculously choose to do this. It’s self- flagellation. We choose to do it because we know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. There is never any doubt in our minds; eventually this kid is going to love skiing. And they’re going to love skiing (okay, snowboarding too) because it’s one of the greatest sports in the world. What other sport can entertain mom, dad, kids, gramma and grampa? What other sport is so dang family friendly that teenagers will willingly spend time with their parents? We put ourselves through this so that one day (probably not for a couple more years still), we can all go and have fun together. We can laugh, turn, jump, fly and search for fresh tracks together. That’s the dream. And that’s when you lose control of your kid, giving you a brief cessation of back pain as they fall forward onto their face. With knees bent in all the wrong directions, you expect a silent wailing to begin, but instead you see a blank-eyed, snow-covered smile. You know that face; you dread that face. It’s the look of a kid peeing in their snow pants. Skiing is over for the day. You got one run in. Skiing with kids is fun, right? BACK PAIN RISING