So on a whim, I change it up and go downhill—literally. I wind up becoming a ski instructor. I’m a good skier. Well, I was a good skier.
After filling out a brief application, I’m accepted into the training program at Catamount, a small ski area just two hours north of New York City. Our instructor, Howard, an acerbic man in his sixties, hails not from Stowe but Queens. Howard enjoys making fun of tourists with cameras—no joke.
Catamount (photo courtesy Berkhires Outside)
Howard teaches with an NYC sensibility, imploring us to “schmear and slice” down the mountain. Let’s be clear: by referring to Catamount as a mountain, I’m being generous. Catamount is a hill. If you’re looking to ski powder like you’re in a Warren Miller epic, Catamount isn’t for you. Grooming machines immediately pack down any fresh snow. By evening, it’s ice.
Welcome to eastern skiing, which is often like ice skating.
Over the course of four days in early December, including one in a steady downpour, Howard takes us through instructor basics: equipment, the wedge, otherwise known as the snowplow, and turning and stopping. Expert ability isn’t a prerequisite to be a Catamount instructor. Indeed, two of my fellow trainees ski into me. Fortunately, I’m unscathed.
On the final day, we’re given a written exam. I scored 80 percent, the bare minimum. Ultimately, everyone passes. Catamount needs instructors. The holiday season is upon us.
Every hour, I show up at the instructor lineup awaiting students. When I’m not assigned, I ski on my own—but not much. It takes me maybe forty-five seconds to bomb it from Catamount’s summit. Mostly, I spend my time on the chairlift, sometimes with veteran instructors, who fill me in on the harsh financial realities of ski instructing.
Disappointing, but I’m not devastated. This is a one-season gig for me, a hiatus from the hustle. Mostly, I ride solo, which is for the best. My fellow instructors want to talk shop. I don’t.
Catamount is novice heaven. I’m often assigned first-timers, otherwise known as “Never Evers,” as in never having set foot on skis. With these cherries, my demeanor is that of an elementary school teacher. If I don’t maintain a tight ship, someone might hurt themself or someone else, which is very possible considering how crowded the J Bar lift area is on weekends.
As far as the J Bar lift itself, which is shaped like its name, it’s potentially more treacherous than any of Catamount’s runs. If you don’t lean just right, you’ll have to wait for another lift and try again. Unfortunately, a few Never Evers act as if they have only one shot to mount the J Bar.
Photo of skiers at Catamount, courtesy of Snow On Line.
After they lose their balance, they cling to the J Bar and let it drag them up the hill. Never had a Clinger on my watch. I direct my charges to march in their boots in a circle before graduating to walking on one ski. Eventually, I ordered them to turn their skis inward like a pizza slice and go down the hill. By the end of my ninety-minute session, my charges can wedge down the J Bar run in control—schmear-and-slice ready. Well, there was one exception. I’ll refer to this woman as Snowball—her silhouette.
Everything starts fine. Snowball’s skis turn inward, commencing a near-perfect slice. “There you go,” I encourage. “Good!” Then, suddenly, everything goes awry.
Snowball’s knees surrender to the forbidden parallel position, and she picks up momentum. “Point your toes in!” I plead. “Pizza!” But it’s to no avail. Snowball starts to descend toward the gaggles at the bottom. Before Snowball can generate a full head of steam, I cut her off, wrapping her in a bear hug.
No one’s hurt. We’re both bundled up. “I’m sorry,” she gasps.
Her husband winds up tipping me. In general, tips are the exception rather than the rule. As is, skiing is too expensive.
I’m not qualified for Anastasia, but she’s assigned to me anyway. Before we head over to the rope tow, the three-year-old’s mother warns me that she just started talking and that I must remind her “to have her listening ears on at all times.”
“Have fun!” the head instructor smirks as I grab Anastasia’s hand. He’s not the friendliest guy.
The head instructor has had it rough. When he started, I imagine that he was shooting for the Alps or the Rockies. After that failed to materialize, he went for the Green Mountains, perhaps the Adirondacks. Instead, we’re stuck on this icy, gloomy hill.
For ninety minutes, there’s absolutely no fun with Anastasia—work. Fortunately, we have the rope tow run entirely to ourselves, which is covered in ungroomed powder that goes past Anastasia’s shins. Apparently, the groomers didn’t bother with the rope tow. Regardless, this will be the only time I ski powder at Catamount.
Anyway, as I demonstrate a pizza slice, I look directly into Anastasia’s eyes. For several runs, I guide Anastasia down the hill. She doesn’t speak, but her listening ears are firmly on. We’re an excellent team. After ninety minutes, Anastasia is ready to graduate to the J Bar.
I feel as much gratification as I’ll ever think during my Catamount tenure.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
