Right Here, Right Now
The Incredible, Amazing, Fortuitous Moment of Being There When the Rope Drops
By Derek Taylor
“I don’t want to go to ski team today,” he said as I flipped on the light. It was Saturday, and finally forecast to be sunny after a week of storms. I don’t remember how much fell that night, but it was snowing pretty hard at the end of the day, about the time my 10-year-old followed some ski team buddies into the woods and got himself tangled up in a scrub oak. He was never in real danger, but coupled with the Warning: Tree Well Hazard signs that were ubiquitous around Snowbasin last year, it was enough to legitimately freak him out.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “But I have to bring your brother up, so get dressed to ski.”
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
“You’re gonna find out why your dad doesn’t have a job.”
He looked at me, utterly confused, missing the reference to the All About My Dad assignment he brought home from school recently—the necktie-shaped cutout that listed my favorite thing to do: skiing; my favorite drink: beer; and my job: nothing.
“We’re going powder skiing,” I said. “Get dressed.”
My son was recently diagnosed with anxiety. One of the treatments doctors recommend is exposure therapy—making the patient face the things that scare them. It’s basically a clinical way of telling them to get back on the horse. By our second lap, as he coaxed himself off a little air, eliciting a yeah, kid! from the chairlift above, I could see it was working.
“That’s where we went yesterday,” he said as we skied down the groomer. He pointed his pole to an obscure ski track leading into the trees.
“I know that spot,” I said. “I bet it was deep. Those trees are thick, though.”
“Yeah… That’s why I got stuck.” His voice trailed off.
From the lift, I heard an explosion. Shortly after, two patrollers came back in from an area called No Name that hadn’t opened all week. Something special was about to happen.
Being present for a rope drop is one of the most amazing and fortuitous moments in all of sports: the taut rope suspending a closed sign going slack at the hands of a patroller; a pristine pitch of glory that was forbidden just seconds ago, and that will no longer exist—not in this state—in a matter of minutes; one run of pure powder hedonism with no tracks and no worries about the snow pack. The finite nature of untracked snow makes this a phenomenon unique to the snow world. Timing that moment is sometimes just a matter of luck. More often, fortune favors those with local knowledge and experience, and perhaps a little patience.
“You wanna grab a waffle?” I asked. “By the time we’re done, I bet they’ll be just about ready to open No Name.” When two patrollers loaded the post-lunch tram with us, I knew our timing was impeccable.
Catching the rope drop with a 10-year-old is surprisingly stress free. You know you’re not winning any races, so powder panic vanishes. It becomes about sharing an experience. The 20 or so other skiers waiting at the rope, however, were buzzing—skis off, crowding the gate, eagerly awaiting a mad rush up the book pack to a powdery promised land. In the anxious kid who can feel tension, I could see the panic starting to build.
“We should just ski down, Dad,” he said as the patrollers skied by us toward the closed sign.
“Nah. Look, it’s about to open. You got this. Trust me.”
I grabbed his skis off his shoulder, and we powered up to the top. We’ve all read enough descriptions of powder runs to know what comes next. The only thing to add is this: As his instincts took over, the nerves disappeared. He was in his element. And, for the first time ever, I skied with my kid exactly how I would with my friends: 2,500 vertical feet, virtually untouched, all the way to the parking lot.
“That was the best run ever!” he gleamed as we waited for the shuttle back to the base area.
“I agree,” I said.
Here’s something I’ve learned: Skiing powder won’t necessarily fix all your problems. But it rarely makes them worse.
—Former Powder editor Derek Taylor used to be someone. Now, at home in Huntsville, Utah, he's someone's dad.
The above article runs as the Intro page in the current '23/'24 print issue of POWDER. Purchase your copy HERE!
