I Strapped On Skis for the First Time at 24 and it Changed My Life

Most people who ski learned as kids — wobbly, fearless, and completely unbothered by falling over. If that wasn't you, welcome to the club. This is a story for the adult beginners, the late starters, and anyone who has ever stood at the bottom of a mountain thinking: "What exactly am I doing here?"

Although I'm Canadian, the first time I put on a pair of skis was at the tender age of 24. I always lived within an hour of a ski resort growing up, but a combination of parents who couldn't afford it, a genuine hatred of cold weather, and no friends who really skied — save the occasional school trip — meant I never bothered to learn.

Then Tinder happened.

After a year abroad, I was wide open to new experiences and dating like my life depended on it. During this time I met a man who had grown up on the snow. When he talked about skiing, it was the way I talked about travelling — with his whole chest. He was saying things like "Winter is my favourite season" and "I would rather ski than be on a beach."

I chalked this up to him being a lunatic. But something stuck. Maybe this was something I should try.

Instead of dipping my toe in, I went head first.

My First "Season" — Yes, Really

If you're going to do something, you might as well commit. Or at least, that's what I told myself.

This was October, and I was living in Vancouver at the time. Rather than booking a single beginner's day on the slopes, I bought a student season pass to Whistler — just two hours away and $600. Then I went to a local shop and came home with white ski pants, a bright purple jacket, and a blue helmet. I don't have pictures. Sorry, not sorry.

You might be asking: why buy all the equipment upfront? For me it was simple. If I invest in something, I'm committed. I couldn't drop $1,500 — roughly what I was earning in a month at the time — on gear and then not give it everything I had. So that's what I did, and I'm glad for it. It's a psychology thing: skin in the game changes everything.

On lessons: I did what everyone should do and took a group lesson. I'd strongly recommend group over private, especially at the start. You get the foundational skills without the pressure, you're surrounded by other people who are also falling over, and honestly? Some of those strangers become your biggest cheerleaders. The shared suffering is half the fun.

Starting Slow (And Falling Often)

Here's the thing nobody tells you before your first run: skiing is hard. Really hard.

I only skied my first year — I'll get to snowboarding in another article, but both sports genuinely humbled me. If I hadn't bought all that equipment, I wouldn't be writing about mountains today. I'd probably be sipping mai tais somewhere in Thailand. I say that not to be dramatic, but because the investment is what kept me going when it got tough. And it did get tough.

Ten seasons later, I think that counts for something.

Here's what I'd want anyone to know before their first run:

1. The feeling of gliding is unlike anything else. The instructor stood below me as I made my first descent down the bunny slope — essentially acting as my brakes — and even at walking pace, I still remember the rush. It might be the closest thing to surfing I've ever felt, and I've never actually been able to ride a wave properly. Something about moving on snow just clicks in a way words don't quite capture.

2. Stopping is a skill. Learn it early. For the longest time, I knew how to turn to slow myself down, but couldn't actually stop. On anything with even a slight pitch, I'd suddenly realise I was going much faster than my ability allowed. My solution? Throw myself on the ground. The good news: snow is surprisingly forgiving, and — at least at Whistler — people are genuinely friendly on the hill.

3. Mountain culture is its own world. It's not just the skiing. It's the conversations in the gondola with strangers, the outrageously overpriced mountain food you eat anyway, the pocket snacks, the cold air on your face. I used to hate winter. Now it's my favourite season. That shift still surprises me.

Finishing Strong — 25 Days and a Dad Moment

I didn't track exactly how many days I got out that first season, but somewhere around 25 days in, I was getting down most runs. A Level 4 out of 6 — solidly intermediate, I'd been told.

The highlight of that season wasn't a perfect run or a new trail. It was skiing with my dad. He grew up in a ski town, came up around Olympic-level athletes, and had lived and breathed this world long before I did. To show him I'd found something he loved — and that I was actually decent at it — felt like closing a loop I didn't know was open.

After the season ended, I didn't think too hard about whether I'd do it again. Life had other plans anyway: I moved to Berlin, which is about as far from a mountain town as it gets.

But the mountains had already done their work.

Once Hooked, It Will Reel You Back In and Take You to Bulgaria

Skiing has a funny way of finding you again, even when you think you've moved on.

If you've ever lived in a northern city through winter, you know the feeling. Short days, long nights, relentless grey, rain, and a general sense that the whole world has gone into hibernation. After a couple of years of Berlin winters, I realised this was not a life I wanted to keep living.

So I started looking for a way out — and somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered what it felt like to come off a mountain buzzing.

I started trawling through digital nomad groups (this was 2017, before that was really a thing) and came across a ski town called Bansko. Back then it was almost completely unknown. Nearly a decade later, it's a thriving, buzzing destination — but at the time, it felt like a secret. I quit my job and moved to a country I had never heard of before: Bulgaria.

But that, as they say, is a story for another post.

If you're feeling stuck, or just want to try something that might quietly change your life — you're in the right place. Welcome to Bergbait.