Gut Check Moments

It is one of those gut check moments. You know the ones that I am talking about. It’s the moment like when your finger hovers over the button to call the girl you are crushing on. It’s the moment when you are standing on top of the cliff looking fifty feet down to the water. It’s the moment when you think about clicking that button that sends your application off to your dream professional school. It’s like a moment when you step up to that climb that has a high likelihood of kicking your butt. Like I said, it’s a gut check moment.

A lot could have passed to bring you to this moment. Maybe it was goals or maybe it was peer pressure. It could have been pride or it could have been dreams. It doesn't matter what brought you here; what matters is what you decide to do next. Each gut check moment is supplied with two doors: one in the front and another in the back, thusly providing you with two options. Option 1: You can sheepishly retreat through the back door, eyes lowered, tail between your legs, having decided that the risk is too great, your confidence too low, and your fears too large. Option 2: You can kick down the front door, knocking your fears and misgivings aside like bowling pins, and charge out ahead into whatever is waiting.

I suppose there are pros and cons to each option. Option 1 neatly eliminates the chance of failure, but just as succinctly destroys any chance of success in the unattempted endeavor. In order to bypass the possible shame, strains, and struggles involved in a botched attempt, one must take a detour which also circumvents the elation, ecstasy, and the excitement that accompany a successful one. Option 2, while holding higher risks, also promises greater rewards. When one charges out the front door, he does so fixed upon embracing whatever it is that lies on the other side, both the terrible and the terrific.

So here I am, in one of those gut check moments. For the last decade, I have numbered myself among the ranks of the snowboarders. Since the age of fourteen, I have always chosen to strap myself to one big piece of plastic when I go to slide over frozen crystallized water. I have always thought myself happy there and never have seriously considered the option of converting to skis. One day, on impulse, I borrowed some skis from a friend and spent half a day taking my first turns. This first exposure was enough to spark a curiosity within me. Somehow, this curiosity solidified itself into a desire concrete enough that this fall at a ski swap, I walked away with a pair of skis. Within a couple of weeks, I had also purchased boots and poles. I now had everything I needed to ski. Well, almost everything.

When Paul told me we should go follow some boot pack trails and then ski at Alta ski resort on Saturday, I envisioned finding a low grade bunny hill to match my low grade ski skills. I agreed and that morning found Paul and me en route to a pre season ski session. Low grade bunny hill didn't even register on Paul's radar though and after following a steep trail of boot tracks for almost two hours, I find myself high on a saddle of a mountain, a steep powder bowl directly below me. Paul has shrugged off my attempts to tell him that this is probably above my level, telling me that I will be fine. I take my pack off and set my skis in the snow, and then turn and look once again down the steep slope. I gaze back at the unfamiliar plastic pieces that lie there, looking back at me. I heft the poles in my hand and with some trepidation and hesitation, step onto the bindings of the skis. As the click of the bindings reaches my ears, I close my eyes for a second.

Here it is: one of those gut check moments. I can sneak out the back door. It’s still open. I can take the skis back off, slide down the slope on my butt, walk to the car, post the skis on KSL and forget that the whole thing ever happened. I can convince myself that I am perfectly happy as a snowboarder and that I never even really wanted to change.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other as the crunching of snow beneath my skis accompanies my movements. I look at the front door. This front door has double black diamond stamped all over it. Gut check time.

I shove both poles deep into the hill and push off down the mountain, out the front door, ready to face what may. For the first few seconds I glide effortlessly through the powder. A smile appears on my face. Then, as I attempt to make a turn, my skis cross, my body flips and the next thing I know, I am face down in the powder, my legs twisted awkwardly far behind me. I am still smiling though. No matter how sore I am tomorrow, it sure feels good to go out the front door.