Learning to Let Go: Reaching Flow State and Finally Embracing the Joy of Skiing

Learning to let go.

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There comes a point in every ski trip where you ask yourself “why do I ski”?

This day, Friday, the last day of this year's trip with the boys, was that day.

Six days into our ski touring odyssey of Georgia, one day to go, and my body was finally giving up on me. The last two nights were the first time all trip where old ghosts had come back to haunt me, namely the air being too dry and thin for me to sleep at night.

Blisters the size of ping pong balls – and distinct lack of quality blister plasters to do anything about it – had made the effort of getting into and out of ski boots almost an impossibility.

Aches and pains had now, for the first time all week, began to creep into my body, and a general fatigue from the skiing – including travelling up to 12km and 1500m vertical on skis a day – from the altitude (we were starting from 2,200m in Ushguli village), and from simply burning through 4,500 active calories per day, were beginning to bite.

The skin up each morning was, quite simply, getting slower and more difficult. Despite my best efforts at fitness before the trip they had been a bit misaligned and I had distinctly slipped to the back of the group, especially when the conditions had turned rough as they had yesterday.

So this morning, as I fought my way into my ski boots and fought the still falling snow to clip into my skis, I asked myself, for the first time on this trip, “why do I ski” or perhaps “why do I go ski touring?”

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We skinned directly out of the village for the first time - in fact, directly out of the guesthouse we were staying in - skinning up surrounded by the sureality of farm animals and 10^th century towers. From there, we toured up the hill directly behind the village, overlooking both steps to the settlement and the historic church that sits gazing over it all.

The snow continued to fall, as it had done all night and all of the day before, albeit far less than it had been and without the wind to go with it. We knew our tour would be limited, however, because the cloud had socked in the upper half of the mountain.

Climbing a little under 600m, we crested a ridgeline and found that far more than cloud would halt our progress. The wind was howling once again, and the snow was driving into our faces. Even more so, the wind was strong and consistent enough that it was turning the upper layer of the snowpack into wind slab, a hard, ridged surface layer that is horrible to ski on.

Calling the climb quits, we turned, hid in a gulley and quickly transitioned to downhill mode, before setting off back down the mountain. I fought my ski boots the whole way, ankles in agony from the abrasions and fatigued from the … well, from the everything.

I skied the face like shit, unable to ski, picking the wrong lines through the snow so that I skied into a gulley that I had to pick my way out of, and at one point sitting far to far back on my skis and falling backwards into the snow, simply sitting down on the tails of my skis.

But somewhere, deep in there, was a glimmer of hope. Building off yesterday, I knew I could ski this stuff. As I finished the run my feet settled into my ski boots so my ankles were no longer being torn apart.

As I reached the end of the run, I caught up with the group.

“Again?” someone asked, “just up to where we’d passed a group transitioning from skins to bootpack?”

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Why?

Why do I do this?

Why don’t I just call it here, take the memories of an amazing week and disappear into a bar in Mestia with my friends to celebrate the week that was?

Why don’t I get out my ski boots and soaking wet ski gear and into something dry and comfortable?

I don’t know why not. I love skiing, and I’ve discovered a love of ski touring this week that I sort of knew I had in me – I do love a good hike in the mountains, after all.

And our guide has been incredible. Avto is only 24 years old, and works as an engineer at the local airport when not guiding. He’s built his own cabin in the woods, and has climbed nearby Mount Ushba – widely considered one of the most challenging climbs in the world. He has an exceptional taste in music, played avidly through the car speakers during his rally-like commutes around Mestia and Svaneti, overtaking anyone and everyone that gets in his way as only a true local who has been driving these roads for years can do.

And he is a phenomenal skier. Once upon a time a ski racer, he relishes a deep powder line and always lets us know how good we have it by the wide grin on his face; a rarity amongst a Georgian people who we’ve found to be impeccably reserved and overwhelmingly modest, things that universally provide a façade to a warmth, an understanding, and a brilliant sense of humour that I challenge you to find anywhere else in this world.

So when Avto, grin on his face, says we should go again, I know I’ve found my why.

Because it will be even better when you get a second go. Because you know that the whole week has been building to this. Because you know that, deep in your heart, this is why you put in the hours on the blog, and at work, and planning trips – and paying for them – for moments like this.

I led the charge back up. I was first to the top, for the first time all week, nearly ruining my knee kick turning so hard up the skin track. We only went a few hundred metres or so, just up above the ridgeline, staying below the cloud and the wind and the snow, before turning around and preparing for the ski all the way back down.

I have dreamt for a while now of reaching flow state whilst skiing. I am far too much of a perfectionist for this, analysing and overanalysing every turn in my head, even as I am going, to find out what I did wrong and correct for the next one. It's the legacy of the instructor course I did so many years ago, being taught how to evaluated others' skiing being turned against me in my own head. That being said, in many ways I love this side of things – it’s the reason I ski – the joy of figuring out my weaknesses and overcoming them to ensure I can meet the challenge of the mountain.

But skiing with friends for the past few years, I am aware this is … not holding me back so much, but showing that skiing is more fun when you let go, that thing I have always struggled with.

So this time, I let go.

With my favourite song in my head and even singing it out loud as I went – “Many of Horror” by Biffy Clyro, in case you care - I set off down the slope.

Immediately I was disappointed, having picked the line that chuntered and bounced over old tracks up and down through the snow. I swung to skier’s left, paused, restarted the song in my head, and tried again.

And let go.

Actually let go this time.

The pitch fell away to the right and as I followed the fall line I picked up enough speed to begin to fly. More than a foot of snow had fallen in the last 24hrs, and I was feeling it all.

For the first time in years, perhaps since I started taking this skiing malarky seriously, I had nothing to complain about. No technique issues, no issues with boots or skis, no niggling aches or pains.

I let go.

I bounced between the turns, legs staying the perfect width apart to absorb the impact of the compressions, skis turning almost – almost – effortlessly in the deep deep snow.

I let go.

I forgot about the effort of the uphill, my ankles, my fatigue.

I let go.

I skied. I skied it all. I skied it hard, I flowed through everything, I felt the snow fly up around me and over my shoulder and into my chest and onto my gloves.

I let go.

And realised, more than anything else, this is why I ski.

I let go.