day 12—snow basin

There’s nothing like getting the first tracks down a freshly groomed ski run. It nearly makes you overlook the throng of vehicles you had to navigate in the parking lot.

“It’s a Tuesday. What are all these people doing? Don’t they have jobs,” Trent’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

It was certainly a bit altruistic to believe we would have the mountain all to ourselves, but even I was astounded by the sheer number of people.

“It has to be the holiday spillover,” I guess.

Snowbasin wasn’t on our radar, but because of our northern detour and its proximity to Payton and Bobby, we couldn’t pass up an opportunity to ski with Bobby. After all, it was voted the #1 ski resort in the country. We’d soon discover why.

As we climbed the Middle Bowl lift, the dramatic Needles Cirque rose through intricately draped snow on our right. These mountains were more sharp and compact compared to the sprawling, towering peaks we left behind in Colorado. They reminded me of my time gallivanting around Swiss mountain towns in constant shock that I wasn’t in a green room.

It was the scenery or the 20 mph winds, I can’t say for sure, but something gave me a rush of adrenaline and confidence that day. 

After my mandatory warm-up run on a blue (despite having skied nearly 50 days in the two years prior), I surprised myself—and Trent—and decided to give the terrain park a try.

Although it was the “baby” terrain park, it was still my first time even considering the possibility that I was good enough.

Ah, there’s that phrase again: Am I good enough?

It has occupied my inner thoughts without charge for decades but has become even more haunting in recent years.

The feeling began when I accepted a job for which I felt vastly underqualified. It persisted when I received a promotion within my initial six months.

And again, after my first year and the following year. And the year after that.

It took up permanent residence when I became a manager. A few more accomplishments later, and here we still are.

Although, if you ask me, it’s teetering between refinancing or finding a quaint little space in the country. 

But today, that voice was unusually quiet—a silent symphony that I never imagined I’d hear. Perhaps gliding over a butter box has a way of doing that to you.

It’s exactly what it sounds like—and don’t worry, I didn’t know what it was either—a rectangular box with a smooth, low-profile surface for skiers and snowboarders to practice tricks like…well, buttering.

After that, I was on a roll. 

Before today, I had never willingly ventured down a black diamond. However, with Trent and Bobby’s patient encouragement, I glided gracefully across the moguls, my skis floating effortlessly over the terrain.

The whispers of encouragement, “You can do this,” and the hum of my pump-up song, Pink Pony Club, seemed to dispel any doubts of inadequacy.

I maintained that exhilaration throughout the day, smiling as we stopped to shower at a random Planet Fitness along I-80.

Nothing—not even forgetting my shower sandals—could bring me down.