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“You should try the trees. That’s what people come here for,” says Raphael, the concierge at The Vale Rusutsu, the ski-in/ski-out aparthotel I’m staying at in central Hokkaido. He’s helping me print out my lift pass from the kiosk in the lobby while giving me a lay of the land. I’ve skied Hokkaido before (in Niseko many years ago), but this is my first time in Rusutsu, an all-season outdoors destination that features three mountains. As a nervous skier, day one at a new-to-me resort often fills me with jitters, and his suggestion to head into the trees does nothing to calm me down.
I first learned how to ski when I was 29 alongside Swiss toddlers in Verbier. During that lesson, I couldn’t tell you if I was more concerned about not wanting to hurt myself or not mowing down those children because I couldn’t get into the pizza position fast enough. Now that I’m 40 years old with dozens of ski trips under my belt, I’m still concerned about colliding with just about anything, not just aspiring Swiss Olympians; this leads to skiing defensively and filled with tension.
Don’t get me wrong, I do love skiing, and in the last 11 years, I’ve improved my skills enough to leave a trail (of anxiety) on snow-covered mountains all over the world. I’m happy to tackle intermediate terrain (and the occasional entry-level expert trail), but I wouldn’t say that I look confident or graceful doing it.
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My favorite type of skiing involves lots of open spaces. The bigger I can make my turns, the more at ease I feel. So the idea of skiing on narrow tracks of snow between towering fir, cherry, and pine trees doesn’t necessarily fill me with excitement. I relay these concerns to Raphael, but he brushes me off, not unkindly, telling me that I have to at least give it a shot. After all, he reminds me, Rusutsu is famous for tree skiing.
Because I sometimes lack the confidence (or the steady hand) to do hard things on the slopes, I regularly rely on experts for reassurance. And that’s how, later that day, I find myself on Mt Isola (one of Rusutsu’s mountains) taking deep breaths on the outskirts of a groomed trail.
My instructor has decided I’m ready to do a mild tree run, fluffy with fresh snow. Because he is more knowledgeable and more experienced, I submit to the idea that he has my best interests in mind. I do my best to contain the unease swelling in my heart and point my skis toward the pines. All I need to do is slowly follow the trail that others have left behind. My instructor suggests taking a buoyant stance that will allow me to almost glide on the powder but to be precise enough with my movements so as not to crash into the trees.
The author conquers anxiety while skiing through trees. (Photo: Courtesy of Chadner Navarro).
Somehow, I get it done. I suspect that I could have walked through those trees faster, but my aching quads can attest to my triumph. And I surprise myself when I tell my instructor I want to do it again. Because it’s my fears that have limited my perception of my potential, I always assumed that the breadth and depth of my skiing would never include things like trees or black diamonds. Those parameters are only redefined when I do something I’ve never considered myself capable of doing. But that day, I finished that same tree-dotted terrain three times.
Accomplishing new things isn’t just exhilarating, it’s also addictive. I celebrate my expanding skill set by spending an hour in the on-property onsen. Embracing Japanese ski culture is a lot easier when all you have to do is sit there.
Checking things off a list that doesn’t exist continues in Niseko, where I learn that night skiing is quite popular. I’m not with an instructor, so I’m once again consulting the hotel concierge for skiing advice. This time, it’s Niseko Kyo, another ski-in/ski-out property located seconds away from Hirafu’s Ace Family Quad Lift.
I have never skied at night before. I have never gotten close to skiing that late. Admittedly, I prefer to ski until a late lunch, when I can then succumb to as many glasses of rosé as is legally acceptable. But in the spirit of adventure and self-improvement, I accept an invitation to join Rhyle—an Australian expat, snowboarder, and team member at Kyo—for a sunset ski tour of the mountain.
Rhyle says space is the best thing about night skiing. As Niseko’s stock as an international ski destination continues to soar, so do crowds that descend on the resort. But the volume of people drops significantly at night. And so does the number of available trails. The inventory is even slimmer when you account for the runs I actually want to do.
I imagine that most people who hold a respectful fear of skiing are primarily worried about injury, whether to themselves or to others. My brand of anxiety, however, mixed with the overactive imagination that has led me to become a writer, can deliver more unusual mental visions.
For instance, early in my ski education, you could have found me slowly connecting my turns on a beginner run, repeatedly muttering to myself to not shoot off the mountain. Skiing at night when visibility is low, uncertain about which runs end where, I find myself obsessing over getting lost and having to navigate terrain that leads to a ravine. (I suspect that no such area exists, but that’s what I fixate on. So I tell myself I can side-slide in that ravine if necessary.)
“Accomplishing new things isn’t just exhilarating, it’s also addictive.” (Photo: Courtesy of Chadner Navarro )
Thankfully, Rhyle proves to be an exceptional and encouraging night skiing companion, even if he is a snowboarder. He cheers me on by reminding me that, based on his expert appraisal of my flailing around, I can do all the runs we find ourselves on. At this point of the day (during a warm week in Niseko), most of the mountain is slush, which is its own type of torture. Yes, I’m overthinking every errant sound or surprise bump, but I’m also trying to soak it all in. I’m skiing at night with less than favorable mountain conditions under my skis.
I could never have imagined doing this 10 years ago, and for all the hee-hawing I do about how much skiing scares me, my desire to improve in the sport is a greater force. And when I’m atop a run with flood lights, moonlight, and Mount Yotei’s sleek silhouette guiding me down, an unexpected combination of gratitude and pride grips me, nudging me forward, empowering me to keep going, especially when I invariably lose a bit of balance.
The positive vibes are nearly ruined when, on a narrow run, a gang of snowboarders comes shooting from all directions. I’m rattled, and to give myself space and time to gather my senses, I do a slight pizza, take a deep breath, and do what I always do when I get anxious while skiing: Sing myself to the finish line.
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