I Went Back to the Slopes After 20 Years. Here’s Why I’m Happy to Be a Beginner Skier Forever.

It started with a rope-tow slope behind an apartment building in the Chicago suburbs, with a $25 deal for the evening’s ticket and renting skis. Even traffic looked nice from atop the miniature hill: that grid of lights in the distance, beneath a big, dark sky. I hadn’t downhill skied since a few weekend attempts in junior high, but I’d recently tried out a ski simulator, and it inspired me to get back out. The skis were heavier than I remembered. I snowplowed at first, then turned carefully side to side.

The skier in front of me was a Russian real-estate agent with a live Pomeranian sticking its head out of her backpack. The Pomeranian wore pink bows and seemed very relaxed. It flattened its ears when she picked up speed. I followed them down.

“Wow,” said a man at the bottom, as I coasted to a stop. “You’re really good.”

This was not true, but it still made me proud. “Thanks,” I said, beaming. “This is the first day I’ve skied in 20 years.”

“This is the first day I’ve seen snow in my life,” he said. “I flew in from Singapore today. But I’ve been watching ski tutorials on TikTok.”

It was a Tuesday night and we were practically alone on the hill, the Russian woman and her tiny dog and the Singaporean man and me, and we cheered on each others’ runs, and waved goodbye at the evening’s end without exchanging names. It felt like the ski world was very small and we would surely cross paths later on. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such instant alignment with strangers, such comfort at trying something new. It was the start of my obsession, this winter, with skiing alone as a beginner, and I’ve become quite convinced that there are few better sports in the world to attempt solo as an adult.

For one thing, it’s weirdly accessible. Being a good skier? That’s expensive, all-encompassing. But if you’re bad at it, you can go to the dinkiest hills and still get some exercise and a nice challenge for less than the cost of a pilates class. These little hills have short lines, or no lines at all. You can drop in for two hours without feeling guilty, or swing by after work and before dinner. I’m sure that owning your own skis is great, but as a beginner using rentals, you’re just happy to be gliding at all. And after a couple sessions with a rope tow, my arms are feeling buff.

Plus, there’s a natural camaraderie with other people your speed, whether they’re half or twice your age, that makes beginner skiing a perfect mix of companionship and solitude, structure and freedom. At home, I’m a mom of twin toddlers; even getting up in the morning is a careful progression from one measured, intentional step to the next. But on a ski hill, I’m not planning anything, because I’m not even thinking at all. Turn right! Turn left! Take a break! Grab the rope again! It feels, delightfully, like being a kid myself, playing alone or making friends on the swings as I see fit.

A few weeks into this newfound obsession, I got invited on a ski trip to Tahoe, and have never said yes so fast. How would real mountains compare to my favorite suburban dinky hill? I spent my first day at Mt. Rose, a medium-sized resort on the Nevada side, happier than a possum eating trash. The sky was blue, and the sun warm, and the mountains speckled with granite and scraggly pines. Compared to what I was used to, the trails and slopes went on and on. I met a 71-year-old cowboy on the lift, and from then on, we waved each time we passed. At one point I stopped mid-hill, stuck, and noticed another guy watching me from below. When I finally made it down, he lifted his arms in a cheer.

I rode with him on the lift back up. His name was Kurt, and he hadn’t skied in 40 years, but he’d grown up nearby, volunteering at Mt. Rose in elementary school so he could ski for free. Now he lived with his wife in Philly, and had just come back to visit his mom. “Man,” I said, gazing out, as the lake shone navy in the distance. “Why do I live somewhere without mountains?”

He said, “I’m asking myself the same thing.”

The next day, emboldened, I tried a big resort. Palisades Tahoe. Skiing there as a beginner felt, I imagine, much like it would feel to parachute into Disney World if you’d never seen cartoons in your life, surrounded by superfans who know the map by heart. Everyone was serious and fast; even the aprés bar sizzled with intention. The lifts were high, and the lines were long, and the telemark skiers were cool. The bakery had a sign that said cookies were free for Olympic gold and silver medalists, but bronze medalists should try harder. I got lost, promptly, on the miles of slopes; teen boys told me to turn left, and when I did, they laughed maniacally; the ground dropped like the crest of a waterfall as I skidded sideways in slow-motion down a black diamond for what felt like an hour or more. My life flashed before my eyes, settling finally on my most recent memories, from the day before at Mt. Rose, with its friendly septuagenarians. How good I’d had it! Why had I ever left?

I don’t want to be a better skier. I like dipping in my toes. I want cheap hills and $4 chili and women who ski at a strolling pace with Pomeranians in their bags. I want to go, once a winter, to Mt. Rose, or some other medium-sized resort, on a day when the lines are short or nonexistent, and I want to feel like that’s a grand adventure indeed. I want to teach my kids, when they’re old enough, which is soon, on a slope we could walk right up. There are so many ways to get down a mountain: slalom skis, or telemark, or a snowboard, or those little skis that look like skates. It’s reassuring: if I get comfortable on one, I can try another. With a little creativity, I think I can stay a beginner for good.