For fifteen wonderful years, I taught skiing for Vail Resorts and had the opportunity to teach people from all over the world.  I loved every minute of it.  Being a ski instructor was that rare job where work felt like play, and where having fun wasn’t a distraction from learning—it was essential to it.

Group lessons, paradoxically, deepened a sense of connection even more than private lessons.  Strangers arrived cautious and with a sense of trepidation; but shared struggle has a way of dissolving barriers.  Being a bit awkward together, improving together, laughing together—all of it created a micro community.  As the instructor, I was the anchor of those tribes, setting the tone that it was safe to try, safe to fail, and safe to enjoy the process.

When I was enjoying myself (which was always), my students were too. And when they were smiling and laughing, they learned.  One thing that I discovered early on was how intimate instructor–student relationships could become—even in group lessons with people I had just met that morning.  Not intimate in any personal or inappropriate sense, but in the deeply human way that grows out of shared vulnerability and trust.

Learning to ski puts adults in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable position.  They may be cold, unsure of themselves and uncertain about what the day might bring.  Many were highly successful, confident people in their everyday lives—the CEO of a major airline, a well-known TV personality—suddenly reduced to being the least capable person in the group—no star appeal here.

But vulnerability opens a door.  When someone places their safety and dignity in your hands, even briefly, a quiet trust forms.  My role wasn’t just to teach the mechanics of linking turns down a cold, slippery mountainside with two boards strapped to your feet.  It was to reassure them that fear was normal, that progress would come, and that they were capable of more than they believed.

We don’t often hear the word joy in everyday conversation, but joy played an outsized role in learning to ski.  The sport is physical, playful, and—if we’re honest—a little absurd.  Nonetheless, laughter loosens muscles and lowers defenses.  And when students are relaxed, they learned better.  Their improvement fed my enjoyment, and my enjoyment fed theirs, until the lesson became a shared experience rather than a transaction.

Then came the aha moment.

An “aha moment” is that instant when something suddenly clicks—the flash of insight when confusion gives way to understanding.  At the end of every class, I always asked the same question: What was your aha moment today?

The answers varied.  Beginners frequently mentioned how keeping their hands 16 inches in front of them helped their balance; intermediates talked about pressuring the outside ski or steering the inside one.  But regardless of the specifics, each person had found the one idea that finally made sense.  You could see it in their eyes—and so could everyone else in the group.  They weren’t just skiing better; they possessed something they hadn’t before; and being present for those moments was a genuine privilege.

There’s an old saying that it’s not what you say people remember, but how you make them feel. My job was to make people feel good about themselves while sliding down the side of a mountain—and that’s something I’m proud to say I did well.

We had an expression in ski school: There are skiers who teach, and teachers who ski. I fell into the latter category.  Some younger instructors were far better skiers than I was, but my students learned—and we all had fun doing it.

Not long ago, a friend asked whether AI robots or androids might someday teach skiing.  I have no idea, but I’m sure that someday R2-D2 or some rendition of Star Trek’s Mr. Data will be running a beginner lesson.

What I wonder, though, is how many shared moments of joy will there be when a student finally gets it and then looks into their instructor’s eyes for validation as the reflect with pride on their newfound ability.  I’m certain AI taught students will learn, but I don’t think they’ll experience the inner satisfaction that comes from knowing, just by the look on their instructor’s face, that they’ve accomplished something.

That kind of joy—shared, human, and earned—isn’t programmable.  Fortunately, I was able to experience it every ski season for fifteen wonderful years, but more importantly, so were my students – and that’s something I miss seeing every ski season.

Quote of the day: “AI is likely to be either the best or worst thing to happen to humanity.” — Stephen Hawking

 

 

 

 

 

 

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