We start our tale like this:

Three boys, one husband, and me – barreling into Canada after driving through a rainstorm where visibility was basically a rumor. Straight into the open, icy arms of the slopes we intended to peacefully ski on. (Keyword: intended.)

The plan was tight: a quick trip, perfectly Tetris’d between kids’ school breaks and two working parents’ vacation days. We even sprinkled it over a weekend to miss as little work as possible. First-world problems, right?

Now, you might be wondering:
Why would she willingly go skiing? Isn’t that one of the most dangerous sports??!

Excellent question. I wondered the same thing.

Is Skiing Really That Dangerous?

Naturally, I did some evidence-based digging (because #doctorbrain) and found a study that debunks the whole “skiing is death on ice” myth.. and guess what?
Apparently, driving a car or riding a bike is just as risky, per hour of exposure, as skiing.

Now ACL injuries?
Yeah, those are a little too common on the slopes.
But hey, so far, my ligaments are still intact, so I’m counting it as a win.

Are We in Canada Yet?

Somewhere along the drive, we spotted what we thought was a Starbucks, until our eyes adjusted to the sun glare. Nope. Definitely not Starbucks. Definitely Canada.

With our trusty SUV (now basically a mobile ski bus thanks to the gear holder strapped on), we crossed the border loaded down with skis, poles, helmets, snacks, anxiety – you name it.

Fun fact: Bringing your own equipment does not make you a better skier. Or a safer one. It just means you now have heavier luggage and one extra thing to worry about snapping in half.

A roadside ‘Starbucks’.. or so we thought, until our pupils adjusted to the sun’s glare & focused on the letters themselves.. yep, we were in Canada.

That Moment at the Top of the Mountain

No matter how many times I ski, the top of a slope always triggers the same internal monologue:
“Why am I doing this again?”

This trip was no different.
Bundled up in nine (yes, nine) layers — not counting gloves, socks, liners, or the full balaclava situation — I stood there at the peak like a Michelin Man cosplaying as an astronaut.

And despite all that effort to layer up, the cold still managed to sneak in.
The kind of cold that grabs your fingertips, laughs at your jacket, and settles deep into your bones.

And when I say cold, I mean it in the bone-chilling cold sense that you feel on the inside of your finger-, or toe-tips, and then spreads down into the depths of your marrow.

Fun (Terrifying) Hypothermia Fact Break

In case you ever need a cocktail party tidbit:

• Hypothermia is officially defined as a core body temp under 95°F.

• The lowest recorded survival body temp?
  56.7°F – in a Swedish radiologist who fell into freezing water during a ski accident.

Dr. Anna Bågenholm survived 80 minutes under ice, found an air pocket, suffered cardiac arrest, and still made a full recovery.

Honestly? I could barely survive standing still at the top of the hill.

Layering: A Tactical Sport

Let me tell you: if even a square inch of skin is exposed on that mountain, you’ll be paying the price.. fiddling with layers, battling the wind, and questioning every life choice that led you there.

Re-layering on a ski slope is basically surgery: peel carefully, replace meticulously, pray you don’t miss a step.

Ice, Ice, Very Much Not Baby

Now, I love ice. When it’s in my drink.
But ice on a ski slope? That’s a hard pass from my camp (no pun intended).

Thanks to recent rain and refreezing, the slopes were sprinkled with icy patches so slick I basically turned into an accidental figure skater. I’m pretty sure I nailed at least three pirouettes. does that earn me an Olympic medal?

Later that night, we watched a Tonya Harding documentary and, not to brag, but I recognized a few moves.

Fall After Fall

Here’s where things got real:
Tumble after tumble, I fell further behind my crew, and my confidence fell right along with me.

It’s a real psychological phenomenon: when you expect failure, you’re more likely to fail. Thanks, Psychology Today. And thanks, icy death trap of a mountain. I will never forgive you.

By the end of the day, I was bruised, battered, and nursing a stiff neck that even 800 mg of ibuprofen side-eyed me for.

Rocky Moment

Cue the music. Soft at first, then louder.

Rocky Balboa is metaphorically pumping his fist in the background because despite the falls, despite the bruises, despite my ego lying somewhere back at the third ice patch.. I got back up.

I’m choosing to remember the good stuff:

• The belly laughs.

• The beaver tails (the Canadian fried dough, not the animal, relax).

• The friends and family who skied by my side (and occasionally picked me out of the snowbank).

The Aftermath… and the Comeback

Sure, my body still ached like I’d been in a low-budget action movie.

And sure, I lost to Mont Tremblant. Zero to one.

But you know what?

Aspen, here I come. New slopes, new goals, same stubborn determination.

And maybe… just maybe… I’ll keep up with my crew this time.