Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program
It was by chance that we stumbled upon the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program at Alpine Meadows. We had been taking our son Eliot to ski school at a different resort, where the head of the program went out of her way to line us up with her best instructors. Still, Eliot spent the greater part of the expensive lessons inside drinking hot chocolate.
I was bemoaning this fact to my friend Scott, a mogul hoppin’ skier with a disabled son of his own, when he told me about the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program where he had just skied in a benefit race. Scott didn’t say so, but I guessed part of his motivation for skiing the race was that his son Travis, who was born with Stickler’s Syndrome, had died when he was seven years old.
Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program is designed for skiers of all ages with all kinds of abilities, from veteran skiers who have suffered strokes, to children with severe physical or mental disabilities. Often the lessons are booked by Special Day Classes like the one we saw our first time there. Crowded onto the sofa and benches in the waiting area of the small cabin at the foot of Alpine Meadows was a group of middle school students from the Bay Area, many of whom were seeing snow for the first time. They were from an SED class (Severely Emotionally Disturbed) and they had earned the trip with good behavior. After their lesson they were heading back to the Bay Area. Their teacher, who had driven them to the snow in his Suburban, opened a garbage bag and started distributing ski clothes. He handed one boy a pair of gloves and some bibs (ski overalls) that were the teacher’s own.
That day there was a foot of new powder, and coming down from Scott Chair’s double black diamond slope was one of the program’s instructors. A paraplegic, he was strapped onto what was essentially a seat on skis, with miniature skis attached to his poles. He came flying off the mountain, jubilant and covered from head to toe in fresh powder.
The equipment room at the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program is loaded with specially adapted skis and poles like the ones the instructor used venturing down Scott Chair. For Eliot there were the clamps screwed onto the tips of the skis that kept them from crossing. Learning to snow plow happens at a particular developmental stage, and at ten Eliot was still trying to master it. The clamps forced his skis into a V, so that the following year and a few lessons later when his instructor Laura took them off, he snow plowed on his own. Laura called it muscle memory.
Before his first lesson at the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program, Eliot was apprehensive. He stood at the base of the chair lift for a long time, listing for Laura all the reasons he did not want to get on the chair. In fact, it wasn’t until the following year that he surprised us by letting go of his death grip and skiing by himself (well, partially let go; he held onto the ski pole with nobody on the other end.) Not only that, instead of spending the entire lesson asking when it would be over, he burned through the two and a half hours --in a total blizzard.
“He’s unstoppable,” Laura said.
The next morning Eliot got up and put on his ski clothes. He insisted on eating breakfast in his ski boots and goggles. He was ready to go two hours before the mountain opened.
Our last morning in the snow, we woke to partly cloudy skies and fresh powder. It was Sunday and we were scheduled to leave before noon. Having packed most of our stuff the night before, I snatched up a two-hour Mom’s getaway, and I was in line for the Funitel before it opened. This was something I had never attempted with the kids. The pushing and shoving with other early birds hyped up on caffeine and adrenaline was something I could have done without, but the rewards were rich; I was skiing powder on the other side of the mountain before nine a.m.
At the top of the mountain I was stunned by the view of Lake Tahoe and the snowy peaks behind it. To think that I had considered staying in that morning. I had gone through all the inner dialogues: I didn’t have time; Blue and the kids were waiting; what if the other side of the mountain was closed? But I had pushed through the doubt and was rendered breathless by the beauty I took in. It was not unlike the joy experienced by Tahoe Adaptive skiers when they overcame challenges and took on the mountain.
By ten o’clock what little terrain was open on the other side of the mountain was skied out. I started down the mountain run, putting the skis in cruise control. Halfway down I saw the chairlift that runs across the high camp and gives skiers access to the less crowded bowls and chutes on the front portion of the mountain. I had never taken this chair. I could easily have continued my mountain run, but again I pushed through the inner dialogue and hopped on the chair. There were only two or three other people on the lift, and the lift operator gave me sinister smile. But by then I was committed.
I need not have worried. What awaited me was an east-facing slope, more crust than powder but doable, that funneled back into the mountain run. (There were other more adventurous routes, but they did not lead to the bottom.) What I did that morning was what Tahoe Adaptive Ski instructors did every day: they helped countless skiers push through their fear; they made the run down the mountain a piece of cake.
I turned in my ticket while others were still finishing breakfast, and we were on the road by eleven-thirty. All the way over the summit I listened to the Indigo Girls. What better music for the snow than acoustic guitar riffs and harmonies and the occasional violin? I felt the pure high that comes from exhilaration in the mountains, and the Indigo Girls were singing. Eliot was singing too. He said he wanted to stay in the mountains forever.
By the time we hit 4000 feet, Eliot was anticipating our next adventure, a complimentary trip to Disneyland. As we watched the snow disappear around us, he sang a combination of It’s a Small World and We Wish You a Merry Christmas:
“It’s a Small World After All, So bring it right here!”
It could have been the Tahoe Adaptive Theme song.
I was bemoaning this fact to my friend Scott, a mogul hoppin’ skier with a disabled son of his own, when he told me about the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program where he had just skied in a benefit race. Scott didn’t say so, but I guessed part of his motivation for skiing the race was that his son Travis, who was born with Stickler’s Syndrome, had died when he was seven years old.
Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program is designed for skiers of all ages with all kinds of abilities, from veteran skiers who have suffered strokes, to children with severe physical or mental disabilities. Often the lessons are booked by Special Day Classes like the one we saw our first time there. Crowded onto the sofa and benches in the waiting area of the small cabin at the foot of Alpine Meadows was a group of middle school students from the Bay Area, many of whom were seeing snow for the first time. They were from an SED class (Severely Emotionally Disturbed) and they had earned the trip with good behavior. After their lesson they were heading back to the Bay Area. Their teacher, who had driven them to the snow in his Suburban, opened a garbage bag and started distributing ski clothes. He handed one boy a pair of gloves and some bibs (ski overalls) that were the teacher’s own.
That day there was a foot of new powder, and coming down from Scott Chair’s double black diamond slope was one of the program’s instructors. A paraplegic, he was strapped onto what was essentially a seat on skis, with miniature skis attached to his poles. He came flying off the mountain, jubilant and covered from head to toe in fresh powder.
The equipment room at the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program is loaded with specially adapted skis and poles like the ones the instructor used venturing down Scott Chair. For Eliot there were the clamps screwed onto the tips of the skis that kept them from crossing. Learning to snow plow happens at a particular developmental stage, and at ten Eliot was still trying to master it. The clamps forced his skis into a V, so that the following year and a few lessons later when his instructor Laura took them off, he snow plowed on his own. Laura called it muscle memory.
Before his first lesson at the Tahoe Adaptive Ski Program, Eliot was apprehensive. He stood at the base of the chair lift for a long time, listing for Laura all the reasons he did not want to get on the chair. In fact, it wasn’t until the following year that he surprised us by letting go of his death grip and skiing by himself (well, partially let go; he held onto the ski pole with nobody on the other end.) Not only that, instead of spending the entire lesson asking when it would be over, he burned through the two and a half hours --in a total blizzard.
“He’s unstoppable,” Laura said.
The next morning Eliot got up and put on his ski clothes. He insisted on eating breakfast in his ski boots and goggles. He was ready to go two hours before the mountain opened.
Our last morning in the snow, we woke to partly cloudy skies and fresh powder. It was Sunday and we were scheduled to leave before noon. Having packed most of our stuff the night before, I snatched up a two-hour Mom’s getaway, and I was in line for the Funitel before it opened. This was something I had never attempted with the kids. The pushing and shoving with other early birds hyped up on caffeine and adrenaline was something I could have done without, but the rewards were rich; I was skiing powder on the other side of the mountain before nine a.m.
At the top of the mountain I was stunned by the view of Lake Tahoe and the snowy peaks behind it. To think that I had considered staying in that morning. I had gone through all the inner dialogues: I didn’t have time; Blue and the kids were waiting; what if the other side of the mountain was closed? But I had pushed through the doubt and was rendered breathless by the beauty I took in. It was not unlike the joy experienced by Tahoe Adaptive skiers when they overcame challenges and took on the mountain.
By ten o’clock what little terrain was open on the other side of the mountain was skied out. I started down the mountain run, putting the skis in cruise control. Halfway down I saw the chairlift that runs across the high camp and gives skiers access to the less crowded bowls and chutes on the front portion of the mountain. I had never taken this chair. I could easily have continued my mountain run, but again I pushed through the inner dialogue and hopped on the chair. There were only two or three other people on the lift, and the lift operator gave me sinister smile. But by then I was committed.
I need not have worried. What awaited me was an east-facing slope, more crust than powder but doable, that funneled back into the mountain run. (There were other more adventurous routes, but they did not lead to the bottom.) What I did that morning was what Tahoe Adaptive Ski instructors did every day: they helped countless skiers push through their fear; they made the run down the mountain a piece of cake.
I turned in my ticket while others were still finishing breakfast, and we were on the road by eleven-thirty. All the way over the summit I listened to the Indigo Girls. What better music for the snow than acoustic guitar riffs and harmonies and the occasional violin? I felt the pure high that comes from exhilaration in the mountains, and the Indigo Girls were singing. Eliot was singing too. He said he wanted to stay in the mountains forever.
By the time we hit 4000 feet, Eliot was anticipating our next adventure, a complimentary trip to Disneyland. As we watched the snow disappear around us, he sang a combination of It’s a Small World and We Wish You a Merry Christmas:
“It’s a Small World After All, So bring it right here!”
It could have been the Tahoe Adaptive Theme song.
posted by Victoria Tatum at 11:35 AM
1 Comments:
Wow, I can see the Tahoe Blue and feel the powder on my skin. Eliot rocks!
We love you!!!
xoxox
eak
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