I stood on top of the mountain, terrified, clutching my poles as tightly as I could. The trail loomed in front of me; I knew there was no backing out now. I inched forwards, ever so slightly, to get a better look at what lay ahead. All I saw was white, stretching out for miles, broken only by the tiny dots of people at the bottom. I had never been down a trail this steep, and to say I was nervous would be an understatement. My heart was racing and my hands were sweating, despite the below freezing temperature. My dad stood next to me, patiently waiting for my signal to begin. He had been skiing by my side since I was two years old, and there was no one else I would rather have next to me on a trail. The air was crisp and still, pausing from dumping snow as it had been just hours before. The fresh powder eased my mind, the perfect conditions would make my journey just a little easier. I looked at my dad and gave him the okay, watching as he zipped down the trail where I would soon follow. That was something we always did, he would go first and I would soon after trace the path that his skis had carved out for me. I took a deep breath and pushed off, starting to do what I know best.

Skiing was never something I consciously decided to do, it was more of an activity that I practically been born into. Once I learned how to walk, my feet were almost immediately strapped onto a small pair of Mickey Mouse skis. My parents met when they were both working as ski instructors at Sugarloaf, a large mountain in Maine, and had both skied there when they were younger, so it was pretty much guaranteed that their kids would follow in their footsteps. I don’t completely remember learning to ski, but I do have little memories of my dad helping me navigate my way down the bunny trail when I was four or five. He skied behind me, holding on tightly to make sure I didn’t suddenly zoom off without warning. I remember being a little nervous, but also anxious to take off and try this on my own.

“Pizza, pizza! Not french fries!”

This was a very typical phrase I heard countless times when I was first getting the hang of going down the hill without someone holding onto me. My dad always urged me to keep my skis in a “V”, or pizza shape, so as to not fly down the hill and lose control. When I finally mastered that, it was on to french fries. My task suddenly changed, and now keeping my skis parallel to each other, like two french fries, was the goal. This first seemed impossible, whenever I moved my skis into the suggested position I would almost immediately fly off my attempted path and end up lying in a pile of powder. Despite the frustration of not being able to control my every move, I knew this was a skill I needed to master. Letting me give up has never been an option with my dad, and this was no exception.

However, breaks were much needed and often encouraged. We would often take the SuperQuad lift up to Tote Road, and ski down that trail to a cozy little restaurant right on the mountain. It is a fairly easy trail, so this tradition started when I was very young and quickly became a favorite of mine. The hot chocolate, warm chocolate chip cookies, and salty soft pretzels that the restaurant serves could make any blisteringly cold day worth it. Sitting by the crackling fire was often just what I needed during a hard or frustrating day of skiing. After just enough time spent recovering from the frigid, raw air, it was back to the slopes. This was the part that I always dreaded, and not just because of the undesirable temperature. Right in front of us was the trail I absolutely despised, Chicken Pitch. The name makes it sound harmless and as though it is an easy, fun trail, but I had other thoughts about it. This trail always seemed incredibly steep, I remember viewing it as practically a 90 degree angle. Of course, seeing it now I know that is false and it actually is not that steep at all, but my younger self had a skewed depiction of it. This was the first time of many that I recall being terrified to make the first push towards an intimidating trail, and having my dad by my side has stayed constant throughout those experiences, even to this day.

Being able to follow my dad down the trails has always given me an extra sense of security, even one those days when I can’t even fathom the idea of flying down an extra steep, icy trail in the freezing cold. I often find myself overthinking, and because of that even very small things can quickly become anxiety provoking to me. Putting myself in a situation where I feel unprepared is a terrifying feeling, but having my dad with me during that kind of moment allows me to feel just a little safer and lets me stretch my boundaries. Skiing is often the first thing that comes to mind for me when I think of a situation where my dad has often helped me, but that is just because it has been a regular occurrence for so long. In other aspects of my life, such as school and extracurricular activities, he has always been there to push me forwards. This can often be just what I need to put in that extra effort, but if I try my best and end up not succeeding I know he will always be there to reassure me. As long as there is a genuine attempt on my part, I can take comfort in knowing that someone is there to support all that I do. Skiing is what first showed me this tough, yet still caring and understanding side of my dad, but it also helped me learn about a different side of myself. I learned at a young age that real effort produces great results, and having a support system is essential to that process. Seldom has changed since I was little, and my dad and I still ski together every winter. However, now it is not unusual for us to push off together, while he watches me take the lead.