My alarm went off at 6am. I had barely slept the night before, mainly out of excitement. The plan was to be out the door by 6:30. Candidates had to be there by 7:30, but I was giving myself extra time in case the weather was bad or I (somehow) got lost.
Naturally, it was a whiteout. Which wouldn’t have been an issue had it not also been pitch black. All of the cars on the highway—including me—were driving well under 40. Headlights only made it tougher to see.
It was still dark when I arrived, and I stepped out of my car into about a foot of fresh snow. The lot was relatively empty, say for another older man unloading his skis. I had already made peace with the fact that I was not only likely in over my head, but that I wasn’t necessarily going to enjoy it.
I brought my gear to the main door and after asking around, made my way up the stairs, passing the medical room. Red jackets with white crosses filled the cubbies and the entire room smelled like pancakes. An older gentleman filled plates with sausages, flapjacks, and maple syrup. A hot pot of coffee sat just to the right of the stove.
It’s like I was on the set of a movie.
More patrollers started pouring in, none of which felt the inclination to introduce themselves, aside from a short Indian woman with a big smile. When I reached out my hand to shake hers, she said, “I prefer hugs,” and pulled me into an embrace.
They appeared to be a relatively rambunctious bunch, and I was unaccustomed to being in a room full of people who were louder and more obnoxious than myself. I had flashbacks to the training room at Nebraska and a sense of camaraderie settled in the room amidst the suiting up and friendly jabs.
Eventually, someone came around to get my name and tell me I was in the right place. There were at least nine of us “candidates,” I quickly found out. Six had already completed medical training the previous fall and had their red jackets.
Just before eight, a group of three men emerged from downstairs with sheets of paper. In what only could be described as military form, the patrollers were given their assignments. Most of the terminology went right over my head, so I only kept my eyes on the other candidates.
“Find a patroller and shadow them,” was the extent of instruction. Not knowing who was who, I followed another candidate who appeared to know what he was doing. We were tasked with opening one of the lifts. In other words, ride it up, watch out for obstacles on the way down, and lift the pads on the towers so they’re above the snow line.
It was my first run of the year—something I didn’t think about until I was cutting through inches of fresh powder. We were the first ones. First tracks for me and first tracks for the run.
It didn’t hit me until just then. And just like that, I was hooked.
There were three instructors—let’s call them K2, Blizzard, and Solomon. After rounding us up back in the cabin at 9am, they gave us the breakdown of what toboggan training would entail.
“I’m 59 years old,” K2 said. “If you can’t keep up with me, you really shouldn’t be here.” They rattled off endless amounts of information. Forms we needed to fill out, checklists to maintain. Specifics to training.
“One of you will get injured. It happens every year,” K2 said. “And by the end of this, none of you will be able to fit into your ski pants.” She pointed to her quads. Whether they were trying to intimidate us or be as straightforward as possible, I didn’t mind.
When we actually got out to the hill, they said we’d start with the “easy” stuff, which—in this case—was kick turns.
It took me about three minutes to realize that my relationship with kick turns would rival my relationship with burpees. Even my (quickly fading) athleticism couldn’t make up for my lack of coordination.
I had a long day ahead of me.
The rest of the afternoon was pretty much a blur. They didn’t yet trust us with (empty) toboggans, but instead entrusted us with the lives of our peers, having us practice our stances while we braced a rope that they were attached to. (First lesson: sometimes you’re a candidate, and other times you’re collateral damage.)
I concluded that what I had thought would be an entertaining and engaging pastime was actually going to be quite the challenge. The fact that everyone appeared to be a stronger skier than me (and possibly smarter) was just icing on the cake.
But after clocking out for the day and making the short 20-minute drive home, my insomnia-plagued head hit the pillow and I slept deeper than I’ve slept in years.