Teaching kids to ski, at its worst, is little more than glorified daycare. At its best, it’s the opportunity to instill a lifelong passion in some tiny humans.
I couldn’t tell you why I first applied to become a ski instructor besides my desire to live in the mountains for a season. I was pretty surprised I got the gig to begin with. I wasn’t planning on living in Montana for more than a season, but clearly things didn’t go according to plan. It’s now my fourth season in the mountains and my third season teaching. I'm still loving it.
Hanging out with kids for six hours at a time, you start to get a small idea of what it would be like to be a parent. Most of the time it sucks - they don’t listen, they throw tantrums, they always have snot covering their face. But, every now and then, you get to witness a child execute a new technique, their eyes light up, and it's glorious. I’m not sure how parents justify it, but it's not my place to judge.
Honestly though, I find it fascinating that parents trust complete strangers with their young, impressionable children for six hours a week. I can’t stand some of the conversation some of these kids try to engage me in, I have no choice but to steer the dialogue towards subjects that interest me. Today, between working on pole plants, I introduced my students to the perils of A.I. and the lessons I’ve learned through such films and “The Matrix” and “The Terminator.” I’m sure they’re going to have nightmares - welcome to the real world, kids, now let's go work on those french-fry turns.
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