Utterly petrified: I’ve tried more than once, but I’m done with skiing

“Let’s slice up the gnar,” bellows my instructor as I tackle the nursery run at the speed of an octogenarian sloth. “Don’t let your fear control you.”

It’s my first time on skis, and I’m not just fearful, I’m utterly petrified. The landscape is magical – frozen lakes, snow-covered trees, icicles protruding like beautiful weapons from the eaves. But the cold is marrow deep, and my brain is playing tricks with the landscape; even gentle runs appear precipitous.

“It’s mind over matter,” says the instructor as I trip over my skis while ploughing to a halt on a green run. “If you don’t master the slope, it will master you.”

He has better luck with my 17-year-old daughter. It’s also her first ski trip, but she possesses the courage of the young – or the bravado of the foolhardy. I’m begging her not to fly off the mountainside when a child the height of a garden gnome speeds past us. My daughter looks embarrassed, but holds her counsel.

I’m exhausted by the time we pull out of Banff and head north along the Icefields Parkway. It’s minus-40 degrees and high winds have shuttered the ski lifts at Jasper’s Marmot Basin. Oh, what a pity. We sink into the heated outdoor pool at Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge and emerge to find our eyelashes frozen.

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“We’re having a cold snap,” says a retired park ranger. “But winter’s too long to spend inside. You’ve got to enjoy those winter sports.”

Taking heed, I graduate to the blue run at our next stop in the Okanagan Valley. Still, I’m a woeful student.

“I can’t stop!” I wail, thunderbolting past him and tumbling just shy of a sheer drop. My fearless daughter has catapulted down the slope; she’s probably in the village drinking hot chocolate by now. As the instructor helps me to my feet, a blind skier and his sighted guide whizz by. Ice shimmers like a fairytale in their wake.

It takes a few years to recover. Next time, I head to Colorado, where Vail’s Front Side runs sound tempting: Sourdough, Berries, Flap Jack, Cappuccino. Far better than the Back Bowls, which inspire terror with names like Seldom, Never, Rasputin’s Revenge and Outer Mongolia. My technique remains abysmal – I pitch, careen and nosedive downhill.

“Don’t worry,” says my instructor. “It is through these falls that you learn.”

Doesn’t he know I’m a slow learner? Moving on to Beaver Creek, a new instructor urges me not to fight the mountain.

“Just fall down into it,” he says. “Just give your body permission to fall right down.”

Bad advice: I do fall, just as a man with a limb disability bullets past me on a mono-ski. Word about my ineptitude must’ve reached Breckenridge. Here I’m assigned an Australian ski instructor who dispenses pleasantries. He settles me into a chairlift, and we soar above slopes covered with fresh powder snow.