Photo by Ben Klewais on Unsplash

By Max Bell

The long and gruelling ski season was finally ending. The hot sun’s powerful rays reduced the snow to a miserable slushy state. Spring skiing was uncomfortable, but at least it was almost over. Suddenly, I heard my radio beep and my supervisor’s voice. “Meeting at the clubhouse as soon as possible,” she ordered. Initially, I thought my fatigue after a long day could not get any worse, but my mental and physical exhaustion peaked at that moment. I went down to the clubhouse and joined a circle of other instructors. The scene in this room was unlike any other. People were sleeping on the benches, some sprawled out on the floor, and everyone’s eyes were closed. It was clear everyone was thankful that the season was over. This atmosphere was abruptly shattered like glass when our enthusiastic supervisor with never-ending energy walked in. She immediately got to the point, asking, “Who wants to work for our March break camp? Loud sighs erupted from every end of the room, almost in sync, but her enthusiastic tone never faded. When nobody answered, she began to ask every instructor individually, using every rhetorical strategy possible. However, many people still didn’t budge, each making a new excuse, further increasing her desperation. That’s when the guilt tripping and pressure increased to new levels. As my supervisor went through the line of other instructors, I thought, What if I did the camp? I got paid significantly more and had nothing to do for the first week of March break. But I was still not convinced. Then it was my turn to be interrogated. She attacked me with so much ethos, pathos, and logos my brain felt like static. She hypnotized me. Finally, I agreed to work for the first week of March break camp.    

A week later, it was finally time to face my responsibility. I arrived at the parking lot, which had transformed into small hills of slush and muddy water. As I walked to the club, my feet sank into the shining wet snow with every step. My body felt miserable in my jacket due to the spring warmth. The weather made it feel too hot to wear a jacket but too cold not to wear one. I concentrated on maintaining a happy and enthusiastic attitude as I trudged through the slush to the enormous clipboard that displayed the names of the students I would be teaching this week. I also remembered that this was only a four-day March break camp compared to the entire season I had spent teaching.

I kept assuring myself that it wasn’t that bad. However, this upbeat attitude suddenly vanished when I got to the clipboard. I stared at this board with my jaw hanging, amazed at how I could have ended up with this group. I counted all the names individually. When I got to eight, my heart rate went up. But that wasn’t it. My eyes moved to the right side of the sheet, which showed the programs these kids had signed up for. There’s no way, I thought to myself. While a few of the younger kids had signed up for a beginner’s program, I also had older kids signed up for the racing program. How was I supposed to teach both at the same time? I needed to say something. I appealed the issue to my supervisor, but to no avail. Despite praying, begging on my knees, and reasoning with her, the lesson was about to start.

With all my kids present, it was finally time to take the chairlift to the top of the hill. Finally, a parent of one of the kids said to my supervisor, “don’t you think this is too many kids for one instructor?” She was unphased by the comment and replied back, “Max can handle it!” I set aside the three youngest to take up the chairlift myself and sent the remaining five kids up with adults.

The rickety chairlift travelled up the hill, starting, stopping, and creaking multiple times. This rocky path to the top of the hill made the kids more nervous and my job even harder. At last, we reached the top. I grabbed the kids, hoisted them off the chairlift and directed them to a meeting spot. While the rest of my group skied their way to the spot, two kids could not move. They were stuck and struggling with their legs perpendicular to each other in “pizza” formations. “Wow,” I thought to myself. I took a few seconds to think about how to address this situation. I tried to encourage the kids and give them some tips. But after 15 minutes of pure struggle, I realized they were not ready for this hill. These eight-year-olds had to get to the bottom somehow, and there was only one way. I reluctantly told the rest of my kids to ski to the bottom and wait for me at another meeting spot while I grabbed both struggling skiers, one on each side of me and began to make my way down this long hill.

I had gotten to the midway point of the hill, sweat lined my forehead, and my muscles struggled to lift these units of kids down the hill. With hard work and the worry of my group wandering off somewhere while I was gone, I reached the bottom. Without delay, I gave the two struggling skiers to another instructor on the beginner hill. I then went to my group, feeling proud of myself and how I dealt with that challenging situation and continuing like nothing happened. I felt like Kobe Bryant, still shooting his free throws after tearing his Achilles. When I got to my group, my newly discovered pride was snapped in half by the grandmother of one of the kids in my group. She screamed at me for making the kids wait for me while I helped the struggling skiers get down the hill. This grandmother’s anger resembled that of a bull, and I had been painted red. Surprisingly, her anger didn’t faze me. I tried to calm her down and explain what happened. She shot back a question in a tone loaded with attitude: “Why don’t you just have more instructors?” I replied with the most professional answer possible, “Talk to my supervisor,” and took the kids back up the chairlift.

To my relief, the lesson went on smoothly after its rough start. The kids were very social with me and each other. They even started to become friends. My group was in good spirits and constantly making jokes. March break camp didn’t seem so bad.

 We got on another chairlift like we had been doing all day, but this time was different. I immediately noticed that one of my kids didn’t have the bottom half of his body on the chair. I thought back to what my supervisor told me to do if I ever found myself in this predicament: I had to push the kid off the chair while it was still low to the ground. I attempted to follow the words of my supervisor and tried to push him off, but I felt a lot of resistance. I noticed the kid gripping the side of the chair like a rock climber hanging off a mountain. I yelled for the chair operator while struggling to get this kid off. Nothing was working. The chair had lifted me and this kid about 20 feet high before it finally halted. I helped the kid hold on by pulling him up by his jacket while we waited for the operator to roll out a crash bag. At the absolute worst moment, the now screaming and panicking kid let go of the chair. I now carried all eighty pounds of this kid by only my fingertips. My grip was rapidly deteriorating. The only thing helping me was pure adrenaline pumping into my bloodstream. I wasn’t thinking I was only acting. I had reached the end of my grip on the jacket, but thankfully the crash bag was laid out underneath us. I let go, and the kid fell backwards through the air, almost in slow motion like Mufasa in The Lion King. The kid landed in the bag and ended up with no injuries, but there’s no surprise why he didn’t come back to skiing for a couple of days!

The worst day of my life ended with a couple of thank-you’s and an hour and a half of paperwork. That day will forever be locked in my memory, along with the raw emotion that occurred during it. I like to see the positive side of negative experiences. So, I can say that this experience has taught me a few beneficial lessons for the future. Firstly, I realized I am not in control of everything, and bad things happen. Secondly, I learned to always listen to safety talks. Lastly, I will ensure I never work for a March break camp again!