Winter, 1999. I’m sitting, or really, collapsing on the south face of Brundage Mountain, in McCall Idaho. My gloves have been haphazardly strewn several feet behind me, I’m freezing as tears flood my face-mask. I’m not hurt, not really, but by the looks of it, I warranted several worried inquires as fellow skiers and snowboarders passed by. Then again, I was in the middle of the trail-I knew I was making a scene. I unclip my board and anchored into the snow, burying my face into the sleeve of my ski-jacket. It wasn’t a bad spill, and besides, I was used to it-my fall to successful navigation ratio was near 1:1.  But I hated it, I hated the clamped feeling of anxiety knowing I might fall or lose control; speed was not my friend, it never has been. And yet here I was, headstrong and determined to be good at this despite every instinct to stay in the lodge. My Dad, ever patient stands near me, waiting for this “episode” to pass, he knows I’ll get over it, and how he stood there on more then a few occasions as I cursed at my snowboard and anything related is beyond me. But I get up, I finish, and slowly I get better. Not fly-down-the-mountain on a double black better, but easily navigate a blue, and that’s enough for me.

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