The Art of Self-Arrest
My student, just eight years old, hovers at the top of Horseshoe Bowl. It’s her first true double black, and she’s nervous. The snow is currently softer in the north-facing bowl than any other challenging pitch on our spring-assailed mountain. So far, she has tackled every challenge I’ve thrown at her without hesitation. I tell myself we’re ready. She’s got this.
Gingerly, she pushes into the fall line. Gravity grabs the tips of her skis, and instinct kicks in—her hips reach back, searching for safety. Any way but down! But it’s too late. The pressure on the front of her skis vanishes, gravity takes over, and down she goes.
All I see is her pink helmet bouncing between moguls as big as her. One ski pops off, then the other. She begins to tomahawk, ping-ponging down at lightning speed. Watching from the top, helpless, I shout: "Try to get your feet below your head!"
Finally, the pitch mellows, and a mogul catches her. I race down, scooping up her skis and poles. She sits up in shock, blinks, then bursts into tears.
Freefall. Tomahawk. Yardsale. These are the names for the kind of crashes that leave skiers sprawled and ski-less, two-thirds of the way down the mountain, wondering what just happened. Falls are inevitable. In skiing, as in life, no one makes it through unscathed. And when a fall happens on steep terrain, at high speed, when control is lost and the body hurtles through space—it is terrifying.
For instructors, these moments are our worst fears—a student, young or old, sliding feet-first, limbs flailing, accelerating toward a rock band or some other sharp inevitability. Watching feels like paralysis, the pitiless knowledge that gravity does not always grant mercy. Luck and circumstance play their part, but we are not entirely powerless. We can also learn how to fall more safely. And, more importantly, once that fall is underway, how to try to stop falling.
Self-arrest is a learned skill—one that can be taught, practiced, internalized. But until the moment of need arrives, it is only theory. Turn to your belly, if you can. Get your feet below your head. Do not use them as brakes. Dig in with your knees, elbows, or the grips of your poles—if they’re still in your hands. Feel for resistance, for anything that slows the slide. Search for the moment when speed yields to friction.
There is something to be learned here, something beyond the mountain. The moment when time slows, when adrenaline turns the body electric, when thought is replaced by instinct—this is where understanding begins. Because, even if it never happens to you while skiing, there will be other kinds of falls. A sudden firing. A relationship collapsing in a single, unexpected breath. A diagnosis delivered in a brightly lit room. And there will be that same moment of emotional freefall, of forces bigger than you taking hold, of realization dawning too late. There will be no way to undo what has begun. The only choice will be in how to meet it.
Here, the metaphor of self-arrest comes in handy. There is much wisdom in knowing how to relax your body, trying to reposition yourself to minimize impact, while doing what you can to create a little resistance. To remember, even as you tumble, that panic only makes the landing harder. That survival isn’t about brute force but about adaptability, about knowing when to fight and when to yield. And maybe, if you’re lucky, about finding a way to rise again—battered, yes, but not broken.
After a good cry and plenty of reassurance, my student bravely wiped the tears from her goggle lenses. She clicked back into her skis, took a deep breath, and tried her turns again.
For the second time, her skis gave way, and she went down. But not nearly as hard as before. This time, there were no tears. She picked herself up, took another breath, then looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”
We finished the run. At the bottom, we turned to look back at the bowl curving against the greying sky. I told her I was proud of her, not only for skiing tough terrain, but for handling something so scary with grace. I asked if she was proud of herself. She nodded.
The next day, the storm delivered. On the chairlift, we shared a ride with some bros, buzzing about the knee-deep powder they’d just slashed through in Horseshoe Bowl.
“One day,” they told her, “you’ll get to ski up there.”
She glanced at me, a sly, shy smile spreading inside her heart-printed neckie.
“Oh,” I said casually, “she already did. Crushed it yesterday.”
“Woah! That’s a hard run for a kid. Did you fall?” they asked.
“Yeah,” she replied, “I fell pretty hard. But that didn’t stop me. It was fun.”
The bros looked impressed and high-fived her.
We all fall. We all lose control. But in the disorienting rush of snow and sky, we still have a choice. We can flail, or we can fight. We can surrender, or we can learn to self-arrest as best we can—to seek something solid, slow the slide, and find our footing all over again.
And when we do, the tumbling stops and we rise. Shaken but standing, we realize that falling was never the story.
The story is in getting back up.