We hiked up the hill and then dashed down through the obstacle course. We had to find matching ski poles hidden in a field, hop over hay bales, sink a shot in frisbee golf, and chug either Mountain Dew or water. The first person to finish all the challenges was the winner.

I ended up in 3rd place, but the best part was that every kid who raced got a season ski pass! It was such a fun and crazy experience.

“I love rock climbing too! I’m not just a ninja, okay? One time I was in a bouldering competition. (Bouldering means no ropes—just me, the wall, and my squishy crash pad if I fall. Scary but fun!)

They rank climbs with a V and a number, like V1, V2, V3. The bigger the number, the harder it is. (So basically V stands for Very Hard.)

Anyway, it was almost the end of the competition and I was in 4th place. Boo. Then I saw a V3 climb that could bump me up to 2nd. But the problem was—it had a GIANT jump. Like superhero-jump giant. I had already tried it five times, and my arms were like spaghetti noodles.

But I jumped, and grabbed the tiny ledge with just my fingers. AND I MADE IT!! Guess who got second place? This ninja.”

Me and my Mom a couple of years ago on a bluebird day.

Two years old. That’s when it all started. I was a tiny human on two planks, wobbling down the bunny hills. Green circles were my kingdom, and I was its adorable, snow-plowing ruler. Then came the blue squares—the big leagues! I was no longer just a wobbly toddler; I was a speed demon, a blur of neon snowsuit and pure, unadulterated joy. But all that was just training for the ultimate challenge: the dreaded black diamond.

At seven years old, I’m a black diamond veteran. But even a pro has his off days. We were at Big Sky, staring down a jump that looked less like a ramp and more like a ski-hill-sized ramp. I took off, full of confidence, only to realize I wasn’t even close to making it. I started sliding backward, a slow-motion comedy of errors, ending up at the bottom of the ramp like a human pinball. My pride was a little bruised, but my ego was still intact. “I’m going again,” I declared, and up the mountain I went.

This time, there was no hesitation. I charged down the slope, hit the ramp with perfect timing, and soared into the air. I wasn’t just a kid on skis; I was a superhero in the making. And just for good measure, I threw in a twist, landing with a satisfying thud. The crowd went wild (okay, it was just my parents, but they sounded like a crowd), and my little-kid smile stretched from ear to ear. The moral of the story? Always go for the jump, even if you have to slide backward first.

August 8, 2025