News from Jules | 01.13.2025 | Ride or Die
The bold willingness to try.
On a bluebird day like last Thursday—with few clouds, little wind, and bright blue skies—we could see the horizon in every direction from the top of Mt. Bachelor, including the frozen lakes along the Cascade Lakes Highway winding behind the mountain, the brown farm fields of nearby Eastern Oregon, and even a cloudy Mt. Hood about 100 miles away as the crow flies.
It was nothing like the stormy, soggy conditions the previous week when my out-of-town friend and I only lasted an hour on the ski slopes before we were soaked through and headed to the lodge for fireside beers.
The skies had cleared over the week, but that also meant it hadn’t snowed, thus groomed runs were a bit slick and icy, and instead of inches of fluffy powder atop ungroomed runs, the snow was heavy and thick, compacted by layers of ice, and known locally as “Cascade concrete,” per the Cascade Mountain Range.
By mid-morning, our bodies were warmed up and our stoke was high after catching the first chair when the resort opened at 9 a.m.—my earliest start yet this season—and several fun, fast groomed runs together, including everybody’s favorite tree run through “Dilly Dally Alley.”
After lots of photos and oohing and ahhing at the spectacular views from the top of the mountain, my REI co-worker and expert skier friend suggested we check out a run she usually liked in the East Bowl and led the way. It’s only my second season on Mt. Bachelor, plus a few ski trips when I was growing up, so I’m still learning the mountain and figured: Sure, why not?
The three of us traversed around the mountain, then paused at the top of the ungroomed black diamond run to survey the lumpy terrain. I looked back at my other friend, a regular riding buddy and Mt. Bachelor co-worker since last year, with wide eyes considering this was only his second season skiing ever, and asked if he was game.
Fearless as always, he replied with a howl: “Let ‘er rip!”
And off we went.
I tried to copy my expert friend as she turned in front of me. While she seemed to turn effortlessly like in a Warren Miller ski movie, I was amazed at how hard it was to move through the thick snow, like a combination of ice cream, cottage cheese, and marshmallow creme. All my leg muscles screamed in unison as my stomach knotted up.
She stopped after the next turn to check in and commented, “Phew, this is hard!”
“You’re telling me!” I replied.
Our pause allowed my mind to catch up with my body and interpret the signals.
“I don’t like this,” I said out loud as the fearless friend zoomed past us.
“I’m uncomfortable. I’m nervous about having a stupid fall.”
She encouraged me to go slow and keep trying, then skied ahead to where the slope flattened out and they both stopped to wait for me.
I felt the warm sun on my cheeks as I scanned the snow again in all directions looking for an easier route. Alas, it seemed like the only way to go was follow my friends. Ride or die.
Within two turns, I felt my body launch forward, my right ski pop off, and my neck crunch toward my shoulder as I faceplanted into the unforgiving snow. I exhaled into the snow with something between a deep sigh and an annoyed grown. This was exactly what I was nervous about, I thought.
And then, I thought: “May my body be relaxed. May my body be calm.”
The mantra echoed from my morning meditation. I remembered feeling relaxed and calm as I laid on a yoga mat on my bedroom floor earlier that day and scanned every muscle, organ, and bone of my body, including my neck and my right ankle which were now throbbing, with lovingkindness.
A beautiful gift to myself in preparation for the day.
See photos from our fun day of skiing on Instagram.
I took another deep breath and repeated the mantra as I untangled my legs, dismounted from my left boot, and pushed myself up to a seat. Looking down at my friends, they were still chatting away obliviously as I started brushing the snow off my goggles, pink coat, and navy pants. They looked up when they heard another skier offer to help me, then gathered my ski and pole from where I fell, and stood by as I reassembled myself before gingerly skiing down to my friends.
Instead of going down the rest of the run with my friends, we thought it’d be easier for me to traverse back across the slope by myself. Alas, I proceeded to keep losing my balance and topple downhill—faceplanting two more times—until I finally got back into my comfort zone on a smooth, groomed run that led me to where my friends were waiting and we skied down to the bottom of the lift.
We debriefed on the lift ride up, commiserating about what had happened and what we/I could have done differently—for instance snowplowing for more balance or just taking my skis off and walking down like I do when I descend a mountain. To get my confidence back up, they encouraged me about how well I bounced back from the falls and how smooth my turns looked once we got back to the groomers. Then, we agreed to not ski anymore of the crappy snow.
These were the risks and challenges of the sport. The thrill that comes from speed and beauty and skill—and the discomfort that comes from pushing to the edge, and sometimes over it.
This was ride or die. Not a reckless attitude of trying to get hurt, but a bold willingness to try, especially while sharing both the risks and joys of the ride together.
After checking in with my body, it felt okay. I definitely needed some ibuprofen as soon as possible, to ice my neck and ankle, and surely some R.I.C.E. recovery over the weekend, but otherwise, I wanted to keep going.
We were having way too much fun.
And it was such a beautiful, bluebird day.
May you ride or die this week.
Love,
Jules