Splayed out awkwardly on the frosty slopes of Quebec’s Le Massif de Charlevoix, I was the epitome of what’s known as a wipeout yard sale: skis and poles strewn around, as though laid out on display for Sunday morning bargain-hunters. My pride was in tatters, and my heart was still pounding.
It was hubris that brought me here. At age 46, I’ve been learning to be an “avid skier.” There are many reasons for this mid-life hobby: being stuck inside all winter is boring and sad. Skiing is sporty and youthful. My husband adores snowboarding, and my two daughters started barrelling down hills the moment they put on skis. Now, at ages eight and 10, they fearlessly pinball past me, hollering at me to catch up.
Fine, I’m slow. But the idea of sitting on the sidelines, watching my loved ones embrace the thrills of winter without me, spurred a fear deeper than any slope. I was determined to show them, and myself, that neither my age nor skill level would keep me from sharing in our winter adventures. So when an invitation arose this winter to ski the highest vertical drop east of the Canadian Rockies, I seized the opportunity.
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Yet here I was, sprawled in the snow. Le Massif isn’t your average ski hill. It’s an “upside-down” mountain shaped by a meteorite impact 400 million years ago. Instead of rising from the ground, it slopes down from a flat summit, so at moments you feel as if you’re about to ski straight into the icy clutches of the St. Lawrence River.
At Le Massif, the view can make you feel as if you’re about to ski into the St. Lawrence River.
Claire Sibonney
Perhaps it was this daunting view that rattled me. Or I hit a bump at the wrong angle. Maybe it was the ill-fitting men’s racing boots paired with kid-size skis that I had naively snagged from the swap store in Toronto. Whatever it was, I fell spectacularly hard. The thud left my body uninjured but shattered my confidence.
Suddenly, the task of putting my skis back on to continue felt insurmountable. My brain conjured increasingly dire scenarios. What if I crashed into a tree? What if I fractured an arm or, worse, my neck? What if I didn’t make it? I began to question why I wanted to pursue this confounded sport — and why now, just as my bones were hinting their age.
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I had skied a handful of times before having children. But my interest was rekindled during my daughters’ earliest ski lessons. I wanted them to experience skiing as a metaphor for facing fears head-on and discovering the joy in new adventures. My mission was to guide them in embracing life with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from conquering its obstacles. (The plush comforts of doing so at a luxury ski-in, ski-out resort like Le Massif were no hardship.)
The ski-in, ski-out lodgings located at the base of Le Massif.
Le Massif de Charlevoix
As I sat there, silently pleading for the rumble of a rescue snowmobile, a ski instructor with icy blue eyes arrived on the scene. Here was my deus ex machina. Yet my heart sank a little; there was no Ski-Doo in sight.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Only my ego,” I mustered. “I was actually waiting for the ski patrol.”
He gestured towards his colleague, a ski patroller armed not with a motor but skis, her backpack bulging with a foldable stretcher.
Gesticulating a steering motion, I ventured, “Snowmobile? Any chance you could call for one?”
“Non,” he replied, with unnerving calm, “you will ski down with me.” He introduced himself as Charles and went on to explain that he would support my weight all the way down the slope, skiing backwards in front of me. I hesitated. Surely, there had to be a snowmobile around here somewhere.
Charles ignored my longing backward glances in search of one. Once he secured my skis on the offending slope, our descent began. I crouched awkwardly, as if sitting on an invisible toilet. This felt even more undignified than it sounds.
I gripped the poles he held horizontally in front of me, as he guided us down in a zigzag pattern. With each turn, I had to shift my full weight onto him. This required all my attention, which distracted me from crying the entire way. Finally, the terrain mellowed out and he pointed me towards the base to reunite with my family.
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“Look, there’s Mama!” my husband called out to our daughters. I lifted my poles triumphantly and did a little shimmy to the Quebecois rap echoing on the speakers. The girls’ puzzled faces seemed to ask, “Why the drama?” Those fearless little pinballs, I thought. They have no idea.
Writer Claire Sibonney with her “fearless little pinballs,” Edith and Alice.
Claire Sibonney
But the adventure wasn’t over. After soothing my sore muscles and self-worth in our ski-side outdoor hot tub, I decided I wasn’t giving up. I confided in my daughters that losing my nerve on that mountain just made me want to try harder. I called up the snow school, asking for Charles. It turned out there were two instructors by that name. I had to be more specific. “Le Charles avec les yeux bleus. Le Charles qui m’a sauvé la vie!”
The next day, Charles, in his infinite ski wisdom, posed a question: bunny hill or the scene of my disgrace? We chose the latter.
Throughout our slow descent, he stayed right in front or behind me, sharing essential tips: Bend your knees and nothing can knock you over; make wider turns; avoid looking into the woods; and “don’t think, just do.”
As we navigated the slope, Charles declared, “There is no fear zone, only the fun zone.” I started imagining Arnold Schwarzenegger repeating his mantra, cheering me on. Echoing through the mountains, my response to Charles and imaginary Arnold: “I did it! Fear doesn’t live here anymore!”
I made it down the mountain in one piece — without falling, crying or freezing in place. Achieving this proved more than just my ability to ski; it shattered any false barriers of age and doubt.
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And while I set out to impress my daughters with bravery, I ended up giving them a lesson in humility and carving your own messy way. If the path is all downhill from here, then so be it. Sometimes, the best part of the journey is learning to enjoy the descent.
If you go
How to get there: Le Massif de Charlevoix is about a one-hour drive from Quebec City.
Where to stay: Pick your cosy corner in this mountain haven, with options both at the peak and the foot of the slopes, from comfy condos to the plush Grande-Pointe townhomes. Features of the latter include al fresco hot tubs, and panoramic views of the St. Lawrence River and mountain.
Where to dine: For an après-ski escapade that veers off the beaten path, try Le Massif’s Catski & Camp Boule package. Picture gliding up the mountain in a gondola under the evening stars, then hopping onto a catski as if you’re sneaking off on a secret culinary mission. Your target? Camp Boule restaurant, for a three-course meal of seasonal Quebecois delicacies by chef David Forbes.
What else to do: For thrills without the spills of skiing, Le Massif’s sledding tracks offer all the adrenalin with none of the steep learning curve. Meanwhile, Club Med Quebec Charlevoix, the resort next door, welcomes adventurers and relaxers alike with a day pass. The pass grants access to amenities such as the indoor heated pool and outdoor tub, the hammam, the fitness centre with yoga classes, and all-you-can-eat cuisine.
Claire Sibonneytravelled as a guest of Le Massif de Charlevoix, which did not review or approve this article.
