For my family, Christmas holidays arrived with the irresistible pull of Japan this time. Along with what felt like every third Australian, we boarded a plane bound for snow, sushi, and the wildly irresponsible belief that learning to ski as adults would be fairly straightforward.
In our minds, our week at the snow was already mapped out. Day one would be about “getting the feel”. Day two, refining technique. By mid‑week, we’d be carving confidently through powder, pausing only for après‑ski and reflective conversations about how unfair it was that we’d discovered our latest sporting talent so late in life. The 2030 Australian Winter Olympic team felt ambitious, but not unrealistic.
We met friends in Hokkaido buoyed by optimism and ambition. The group consisted of three beginners, three “skiers”, and all the kids, who would immediately outperform us on the slopes. No one asked about each other’s experience and no one mentioned insurance. This ski trip was out of the group chat and happening.
Day one arrived. We were fully kitted out, helmets, boots, skis and outfits so coordinated they suggested prior experience. The unmistakable look of people who had no idea what lay ahead but had invested heavily in looking the part. I am still perplexed about the exorbitant number the pockets my ski jacket had.
Out we stumbled to the sign “Day 1 – Beginners”. Yep, that’s us, no shame as everyone starts somewhere, even Olympians. We meet Franz, our calm, cheerful and offensively competent instructor. Despite his tender age, he had almost certainly been skiing longer than I’ve been a broker. He smiled constantly – not exactly encouragingly, but with the quiet acceptance of a man who knew he was about to shepherd another batch of gravity‑dependent beginners with wildly unrealistic ideas about their untapped natural talent.
The skis were slippery and the ice was worse. Standing upright became aspirational. Gravity, something we’d trusted implicitly our entire lives, revealed itself as quietly unsupportive. Stopping precisely between two cones proved ambitious at best.
To add to the challenge of our first day, I arrived in Hokkaido with the flu – because if you’re going to attempt a physically demanding winter sport for the first time, you may as well do it feverish and coughing. About an hour into day one, I abandoned the slopes, raided Annie’s impressive pharmaceutical stash, and spent the afternoon in bed, close to death at times. Only other men will truly understand the seriousness of man flu.
Annie, however, pressed on. Determined to “find her ski legs”, she returned for the afternoon session, which is where things escalated and the emotional roller coaster gained speed for her. Enter the magic carpet.
Calling it a magic carpet is deeply misleading. There is nothing magical about a conveyor belt designed to transport anxious adults uphill while strapped to planks of doom. When it’s your turn, the belt appears to speed up to 50km/h. Franz smiles and gestures you forward. “Just hop on,” he calls in the tone of a man who has never once needed the magic carpet for survival.
For a brief, intoxicating moment, you’re on. Upright, balanced, almost confident. Like a three‑legged horse that hasn’t yet realised it’s moments from disaster. Then comes the dismount. Franz’s instructions echo in your head – bend knees, hands forward, don’t panic. Naturally, panic hits. The person in front falls, and this is critical, because beginner skiers operate on a strict domino system. Once one goes down, we all go down. Skis tangle, limbs flail. Franz watches on calmly, nodding, as if we executed the dismount with exactly the lack of precision and skill he expected.
Eventually, the carnage clears and you’re on your feet, sort of, again. At the top of the bunny slope, the five degree pitch feels vertical. You edge forward millimetre by millimetre, hips thrusting awkwardly as you slide down at glacial speed. Just as you start to gather some momentum, Franz’s voice calls out “Pizza, pizza, pizza”.
The next day I returned for a one‑on‑one lesson, determined to explore my skiing ceiling. After 90 minutes, I found it. I could snowplough. I could turn. I could stop. I nailed the magic carpet dismount every single time, just saying Annie. Poles were carried with intent. Franz nodded once. That felt significant. My potential had been fully realised and my skiing journey was complete for this trip.
The remainder of the week became “flu recovery,” which involved a stronger focus on food and drink. Towards the end of the week I successfully convinced Annie to ditch lessons for a long lunch. Timing helped. On this day Annie had just endured a brutal session with Brian*, the retired corporate turned ski instructor from Australia, who efficiently dismantled any remaining Olympic dreams she had. Leaning fully into my role as the supportive husband, I suggested a boozy lunch as a clinically proven treatment for shattered athletic ambition.
Heading into the final day, confidence peaked within the group. The skiers were planning their final runs, the kids were full of confidence and begging to hit the steeper runs alone, and Annie and her fellow beginner friend decided to ditch the instructors and head up the mountain by themselves. This plan was devised the night before over cocktails, which explains everything. Geared up, united by fear and friendship they head off blissfully unaware that a ski-in/ski-out chairlift stood between them and their last shot at Olympic glory…but that’s a story for another day.
In the end, skiing was a mixed bag. Sofia took to it instantly, effortlessly adding skiing to her growing list of “activities I enjoy”, right alongside other low‑maintenance hobbies like horse riding and snorkelling in exotic locations. Annie would happily go again, provided the destination takes après seriously and Brian is not invited. As for me, I remain undecided. I can ski well enough to reach lunch safely, retire early and consider the day a success – which feels far more achievable than any Olympic ambitions I briefly entertained.
This Christmas we’ll head somewhere warm to narrow in on our bid for home town glory in Brisbane 2032.
*Brian was not his real name.
