Blue is my favorite color. Sometimes orange. But on a ski mountain, my favorite color is definitely green — as in “this way to the easy trail.” 

I learned to ski as an adult, not counting one torturous morning in middle school when, decked out in jeans and a CB jacket, I endured a beginner group lesson in the Poconos. After two hours of “pizza” position, trying not to fall yet again in the slushy Pennsylvania snow, I hobbled to the lodge to sip hot chocolate and dry my wool gloves and damp jeans by the heater. My hands were itchy with hives and my fate was sealed. I was not a skier. 

I set aside my adolescent fears when my children were little and tried again, discovering that appropriate attire and maturity are a winning combination. Now in my 10th season of skiing, my skills have plateaued, but even plateaus offer excellent perspective. I’ve grown to love this sport.

Having just completed a family ski vacation out west, it was clear by the end of the first day that now all three of my children have surpassed me. Even my youngest, who is 10 and may still need a hand when he falls, rebounds by flying by with a “Woohoo!” He humored me throughout the week by coming on some greens and blues, weaving in and out of the woods and taking jumps on the edges to make the slow descent more to his liking. 

When my husband and kids sparkle with excitement over black diamonds, bowls, or moguls, my eyes just kind of glaze over. I often ride the chair-lift with a couple family members, then part ways at the top as they head off to push their limits. I chart a path down the mountain that is very clearly within mine. 

We make a rough plan to meet for lunch, and maybe one of them says, “Don’t you want to ski with us?” My answer is no. Or no thank you, to be polite. Because I also don’t need to get better at staying calm when one of my children flies past me at terrifying speeds. And I don’t want to cry. I’m 99 percent sure if I try a black diamond on a mountain out west, I will cry, either out of fear or pain or both. That thought alone is reason enough to stick to greens and blues. I steer clear of the curving lines of ski school kids and feel grateful there is room on the mountain for people like me. 

This relationship to skiing is a surprise to me, someone who aspires to improvement in other areas of my life. I want to get better at writing. I would like to get better at puzzles, tennis, singing, listening, pushups, cooking, and swimming as well. Maybe someday I’ll even want to get better at golf, which I currently don’t play at all. People are always trying to improve their golf games. But I do not aspire to get better at skiing. On the slopes, I’m content to explore the mountain on beginner and intermediate trails rather than conquer greater challenges with my family. 

When people ask what kind of skier I am, I answer quickly: “A lazy river skier.” This water park metaphor also applies to actual water parks, where I prefer floating in a lazy river to climbing up the stairs for one of those free falls through a tube into a pool below, which ends with water up your nose and a guaranteed wedgie. I try those slides for the sake of my kids; they require no skill, I’m no more likely to get hurt than the next guy, and I’m not afraid of heights. It isn’t dangerous, but it lacks the things that entice me. One can’t take in any nature or do any thinking while flying six stories down a giant plastic tube. 

Why rush down a ski mountain and miss all the good stuff? If I’m petrified, I forget to breathe in that fresh cold air, and the snow-covered mountains become sources of impending doom rather than sweeping vistas so beautiful they almost look fake, like screensavers on a computer or television. So, at the top of the chairlift, with the many forks in the road offering a real-life Choose Your Own Adventure book, I choose as little adventure as possible. I want to ski on safe-sounding trails like Homeward Bound, Pearl, or Navigator, rivers of snow whose comforting and neutral monikers reflect their simplicity and elegance. 

Sometimes I look at the other options with a little hint of curiosity, thinking, “Maybe I could do that.” But as I get to the edge of those steeper inclines and look down, the words precipice, palisade, cliff, and butte come to mind. I picture myself on the mountain face, flat on my face. So I glide past, satisfied with slopes that allow me to lope, linger, lumber, and lollygag, where the green of the pine trees and blue of the sky match the green circles and blue squares directing my journey. 

At the end of the trail in a warm cozy lodge, I find lunch and my adventurers waiting for me.