I was in my 60s, with a lifetime of injuries, and hadn’t skied in 30 years. What could go wrong? - Toronto Star

Imagining all the obstacles that could lead to broken bones, I started on Bromont’s preschooler hill and worked my way up to carving.

Bromont, montagne d’expériences, is the largest ski resort in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

“Who’s skiing for the first time?” asks Audrey Chamberland, lead communications manager with Bromont, montagne d’expériences, the largest ski resort in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. I’m one of two in the rental shack to raise a hand, not because it’s truly my first time, but because it’s been over three decades since I last skied.

“Yay!” she says. “We have a beginner slope right outside. We call it the school slope. Three magic carpets go up, allowing you to progress naturally and to experience doing turns. My four-year-old has gotten really good at it.”

Anticipating this trip, I’d imagined myself bombing downhill without a care, as I did in my 20s. Back then, I attacked the slopes fearlessly with absolute confidence. I’ve never taken a ski lesson. Now, just getting outfitted has me so apprehensive, I’m practising with the preschoolers.

Tatiana Luzzi-Ciupka is my instructor. Even our conveyor belt magic carpet ride up the gentle school slope is intimidating. The moment I feel the skis sliding beneath me, I collapse onto my backside. It seems skiing isn’t like riding a bicycle. My 30-year absence from the slopes and the baggage I’ve accumulated have set me back to the status of beginner.

Now in my 60s, I live with a lifetime of aches, scars and injury complications: a shoulder separation and hyperextended elbow from hockey; a broken ankle from soccer. Both are sports I no longer play. After turning to less risky cycling, I’m dogged by knee and hip pain. Standing on this gentle slope, I imagine the obstacles — trees, ice, other skiers — that could lead to broken bones and more chronic pain.

Bromont, montagne d’expériences, is the largest ski resort in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

But I continue with the lesson because I sense I’m in good hands. Luzzi-Ciupka has skied her whole life and taught at many resorts. The lesson begins with an unexpected mental image.

“We’ll start with what the kids call ‘pizza,’” she says. Making a V with my skis like a slice of pie, I remember calling this the snowplow. Luzzi-Ciupka senses my apprehension, “No worries, we won’t go straight down. We’ll do diagonals to make sure you’re keeping the skis in the pizza position.”

I tentatively pizza my way down the school slope, stopping several times, but never falling. It heartens me to discover I’ve retained my sense of balance, at least.

Writer Darcy Rhyno skiing on the big slopes at Bromont.

On the next run, Luzzi-Ciupka teaches me “french fries”: skis parallel and pointing ahead. As I zigzag across the school slope, she calls out, “Pizza, french fries! Pizza, french fries!”

Eventually, I graduate from the school slope to the gentlest of Bromont’s 123 trails to test my renewed skills. Luzzi-Ciupka follows as I weave down the mountain. When we reach the bottom, she says I’m ready to tackle Bromont’s steeper slopes. I’m not so sure, so I repeat this easy run until dusk.

The big test comes the next day. When I look down from the top of the mountain, I’m relieved I’m not in the Rockies. The slope is steep and long enough for a challenge, but not overwhelming.

Silently repeating my fast food mantra, I push off. Somewhere on the way down, I sense a back-to-the-future moment as the years peel away. I shorten the diagonals, pick up speed and feel my skis slicing into the slope. I’m my younger daredevil self again, and the joy of skiing returns.

Bromont offers night skiing on 90 lit runs.

Later, I try night skiing on some of Bromont’s 90 lit runs; the resort has the most in North America. To my great delight, I carve the slopes like it was yesteryear, when I found skiing both easy and exhilarating and free of fear. The ride is a rush of joy.

The day after defeating the slopes of Bromont, I head to nearby Mont Sutton. There, I charge down the slopes fearlessly on skis, then on the most precarious of conveyances, a yooner. It’s a low seat attached to a single short ski.

I take to the new toy with wild abandon. As I steer with my feet, snow flies in my face, and I laugh aloud at the sheer fun, as if I were a four-year-old.

Darcy Rhyno travelled as a guest of Bonjour Québec, which did not review or approve this article.

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