Skiing Blind Again

Two years ago I went skiing for the first time. As this post shows, I had a great time and returned from Switzerland feeling confident, empowered and rather pleased with myself.

A couple of weeks ago we had another family ski holiday, this time in the very pretty Monterosa resort in the Italian Alps. This week was both much easier and much harder than my first time. For reasons that will become obvious, it wasn't quite the resounding success of my first ski adventure. But I am still glad I went, and I'll certainly go again.

In 2014 I found the whole pre-ski preparation phrase pretty overwhelming. I hated getting ready every morning and came to loath the hot, smelly boot room and the perilous walk out to the slopes juggling skis, poles, helmet, goggles. This time I was prepared for the hassle and handled it better. Luckily, as soon as people saw my 'blind skier' arm bands they were happy to help me carry things and be patient as I clambered clumsily into cable cars. As in 2014, I had booked a private instructor/guide to ski with me each morning and as soon as I met Chris I felt reassured and relaxed. From our first conversation he was open, honest and confident, which meant that I was too. And as I followed him slowly down the gentle nursery slopes, everything Jolanda had taught me came flooding back. I could still ski! Chris was impressed with my balance and control, and I was delighted that I could still do it.

Chris was so pleased with me after our first session that on day 2 he suggested we leave the nursery slopes and head up the mountain. This was something I had never done with Jolanda. I was nervous of course, but mostly excited: it felt amazing to be up so high, on fresh snow, with just distant sounds of other skiers for company. Chris had picked the easiest blue slope in the resort for my first 'proper' descent, but even so I spent quite a lot of that morning remembering what Jolanda had taught me about getting up after a fall. Luckily, the snow was soft and plentiful so falling didn't hurt.

It turns out that being on a nursery slope doesn't really prepare you for steeper slopes. The only way to learn to ski on steep slopes is to practise skiing on steep slopes. This inevitably leads to tumbles but by the end of day 3 I was feeling much more confident about even the steepest parts of the run. And as I got to know the slope better, I was even able to predict what I might need to do next.

Once I left the nursery slopes, it became clear to me that I would not be able to ski without a guide. Not only did I struggle to see the edges of the pistes, I also found it hard to know accurately which way was uphill and which way was downhill. Mountains are not man-made: they curve and bend at odd angles and slopes go up and down in surprisingly unpredictable ways.  

In the afternoons, I really wanted to ski with my family and friends. But they were all (much) better than me by now (although not good enough to guide me). So I reluctantly decided to curb my dare-devil instincts and enjoy some Italian café culture and sunshine whilst they tackled the resort's trickier slopes. This was hard for me, because I don't like to admit defeat, but it also felt good to be making decisions about my safety and confidently explaining my limits to others.

On day 4 the weather changed: it had been much colder than usual overnight and the snow felt brittle and hard under my skis. It sounded different too: when skiers passed me they made a terrifyingly loud rattling noise which made it much harder to hear Chris. I found it more difficult to control my skis on this new, hard snow and needed to quickly learn yet more techniques before reaching the steep bit of the slope.

Sadly I didn't get much chance to practise skiing in these odd conditions. Minutes later I fell and hurt my right knee. Chris called the rescue team who brought a stretcher to take me to the clinic. X-rays revealed a fracture at the top of my tibia.

As I lay in my hotel room with my leg in plaster my disappointment at my curtailed adventure was soon replaced with more worrying thoughts. What if this accident was proof that I should never have been skiing in the first place? What if it showed that blind skiing is a foolhardy, dangerous and irresponsible pastime which is bound to end in tears? I could imagine people discussing my accident: 'Well it serves her right for thinking she can do sighted stuff'; 'This is what happens when blind people try skiing'; 'Look at all the trouble and inconvenience her crazy thrill-seeking has caused.' What if my accident was evidence that there are things that blind people are better off not doing? I couldn't get these doubting, ableist voices out of my head. I was horrified that a little part of me actually believed that I had been wrong to want to learn to ski.

Maybe I was more likely to hurt myself than a fully sighted skier. Maybe not. I know of at least two other people who broke bones on the slopes that day. And the doctors in the clinic told me they see around 600 ski accidents per season. Skiing is a dangerous sport but I was very careful. I always skied with a guide and never tried anything I didn't feel comfortable with. My boys laughed at me for being too slow but I went at a speed that felt right for me.

On the whole I think I agree with blind writer Jacques Lusseyran who urges the parents of blind children to let them take the same risks as their sighted peers. According to him, 'there is a danger far greater than cuts and bruises, scratches and wounds, and that is a blind child's introverted isolation.' Broken legs heal (relatively) quickly and easily. Self-esteem and confidence can take much longer to mend. I am still a little embarrassed that I broke my leg skiing (what a cliché!) but I am proud and glad that I know what skiing feels like and I definitely intend to feel that indescribable rush of adrenaline again.

Skiing Blind

As my adventures at Go Ape show, I have always been a bit of a dare devil. But despite my love of adrenalin-fuelled activities like ice-skating and trampolining, I always assumed that my partial blindness would prevent me from taking part in really dangerous sports like skiing.

When I first 'came out' as blind at work and started using my white cane to get around campus, a colleague surprised me by recommending that I take my family on a skiing holiday. Her insistence that skiing is an essentially tactile sport which relies much more on touch and even hearing that it does on sight intrigued me and after watching some blind skiing online, I decided to give it a try. So last week me, my husband and our two boys travelled to Saas-Fee in the Swiss Alps to learn to ski.

Everything about skiing was completely new to me. I had never held a pair of skis, never been to a ski resort and I soon discovered that I didn't even know how to get into my salopettes. My first challenge, aside from familiarising myself with the layout of the hotel, was understanding what equipment I needed and how it worked. The first thing we did when we got to Saas-Fee was visit the ski-hire shop to pick up our boots, skis, poles and helmets. Luckily there were plenty of staff on hand to help us and I had been forewarned to bring all our height, weight and (continental) shoe measurements with us. Trying on ski boots was an adventure in itself. They come with a bewildering array of fastenings, straps and layers of padding and I soon discovered that putting on ski boots is a long and complicated process.

Properly-fitting boots are crucial for confident and controlled skiing 

because heels and toes are often used to control turns and improve balance.

Having managed to find some boots that fitted, I did not pay very much attention to the skis themselves. This turned out to be a mistake. Although my white skis looked very stylish as I carried them back to the hotel, it was only the following morning that I realised that they were not very easy to see on the snow! During the week, my biggest problems (and toughest tumbles) occurred when my skis crossed without me noticing. Next time I go skiing perhaps I'll try and get myself a bright orange pair instead.

When we finally got all our kit back to the hotel, I was relieved to find large and well-lit storage areas for boots, helmets and skis. Sighted readers might find this trivial, but one of my main worries before our trip had been what if I struggled to find my unfamiliar stuff (which looked and felt a lot like everyone else's stuff) in a badly organised and jumbled boot room. Happily there was enough space for me to find a familiar corner in which to keep my gear and this made getting ready each morning a little bit easier.

On our way to meet our instructor, I discovered that walking in ski boots is almost as tricky as learning to put them on. Even though our hotel was only a couple of minutes from the beginners' slopes, it felt like a long and difficult journey over bumpy snow and patches of ice. Without my white cane to guide me the unfamiliar route made me feel lost and disorientated, especially as I wasn't yet used to wearing my OTG (over-the-glasses) goggles. I arrived at the meeting point flustered and hot (which further steamed up my goggles) and was beginning to think that learning to ski hadn't been such a great idea after all.

When Simon and I booked our holiday we signed up for regular group beginners' lessons but as I watched the 2014 Winter Paralympics and saw the specialist guiding needed by the partially blind skiers I began to worry that group lessons would not give me the support and attention I would need to build my confidence. After several phone conversations and email exchanges with Esprit Ski in England who were in turn liaising with the hotel manager, the resort rep and the ski school in Saas-Fee, I was delighted to discover that there was a ski instructor in the resort who had worked with blind skiers before and who would be able to give us lessons for the whole week. 

Simon and I with our wonderful instructor/guide Jolanda: 

note our smart 'blind skier' bibs.

When we met Jolanda Stettler I was immediately struck by her openness and tact. One of the first things she did was ask me whether I would be happy to wear a 'blind skier' vest over my jacket. Given the stigma that still surrounds blindness, it must have been difficult for Jolanda to bring up this tricky subject which can make blind and partially blind people uncomfortable. A couple of years ago this suggestion would have upset me, but since then I have done a lot of work on feeling happy with my white cane and proud of my blindness and I was delighted to wear the vest. It immediately made me feel safer and more secure: I hoped it would remind other skiers to keep out of my way and encourage the ski lift attendants to give me a bit of extra help with those tricky drag lifts...

Jolanda's next job, after guiding me onto the nursery slopes, was to help me get into my skis. This was another challenge. Not only did I find it difficult to tell the front of my skis from the back, I found it impossible to position my boot so that it would easily snap into place. At first I was annoyed that this part of skiing seemed to depend on having enough vision to see the boots and skis. How would I ever become an independent skier if I always needed help before I even got started? But as the week went on, and I got more practised at putting on my skis, I found that I didn't need to see my skis or  boots at all. Once I'd felt my toes into position, trial and error helped me locate the right place for my heel. And if I'd judged it right, a very satisfying click told me that I was good to go. (Later in the week, after watching me struggle with the fiddly task of removing skis by fitting the ski pole into the back of the binding, Jolanda also taught me an alternative 'blind-friendly' way of removing each ski with the other boot.) 

After so much complicated preparation, gliding down a gentle slope on my skis felt easy.

The gymnastics I did as a child taught me balance and co-ordination and I have surprisingly good spatial awareness. Once Jolanda had shown me what position my legs and feet should be in, how I should lean and which parts of the skis should touch the snow, I quickly got the hang of turning and stopping.

And my colleague was right! Skiing is a very tactile sport. Even if I had been able to see my skis I wouldn't have wanted to look at them: it is much better to point your head in the direction you want to travel, and rely on the movement of your body to steer the skis. And feeling the contact between skis and snow helped me tell what kind of snow I was dealing with, which in turn told me how much weight to put into my turns.

As I became more confident on the snow I was more and more pleased that we had decided to opt for private lessons with an instructor/guide. Skiing itself might be a tactile sport but navigating down the slopes certainly isn't. Even with my glasses and goggles, I quickly discovered that I could not see well enough to distinguish the sides of the piste, other skiers or changes in the snow's consistency. Even on a slope I knew well I could rarely tell where I was in relation to its top or bottom. Without my guide I would not have got down even the gentlest of slopes. But when I was following Jolanda's bright orange guide vest and listening to her instructions I didn't have to worry about where I was or where I was going. Jolanda's movements and the sound of her voice and skis told me when to turn, when to be in parallel or snowplough and when to stop. I knew she would get me down safely. And she always did. And in the afternoons, when Jolanda was working elsewhere, Simon quickly got the hang of guiding me too.

Most ski instructors would be (understandably) nervous about teaching a partially blind beginner. After all, skiing is a dangerous sport and it is easy to imagine how a skier who cannot see where she is going could be a risk to herself and others. But Jolanda didn't seem nervous at all: her previous experiences with blind skiers had given her a clear sense of what I was able to do and whilst she never took any risks, she did encourage me to attempt more challenging lifts and runs every day so that by the end of the week I felt like I had made real progress. I was never terrified or panicky, but I was never completely in my comfort zone either: as soon as I felt confident doing something, we moved on to something harder.

I am not (yet) an amazing skier. I still like to go quite slowly and am cautious with my turns. But I can ski. And when I am following a guide I can reasonably confidently go down blue (beginner) slopes without stopping or falling over. I am so glad I took my colleague's advice. Learning to ski was an exciting, empowering and liberating experience which has given me a powerful feeling of self-confidence and a real sense of achievement.

With thanks to Abigail for giving me the idea in the first place, Soph and Dom for making it happen, Simon for being there with me the whole time, the staff at Esprit Ski and the Hotel Annahof for all their help, hard work and very welcome food and drink, Raffy, Zak and Cesca for getting me back out on the slopes every afternoon, Merri for cuddles and walks in the snow when skiing got a bit much, and of course Jolanda for her skill, enthusiasm, patience, generosity and sense of humour as well as for the photos.