No mountain too high

At 46, I traded my midlife crisis for skis at heart-pounding elevation

- CLAIRE SIBONNEY

Splayed out awkwardly on the frosty slopes of Quebec's Le Massif de Charlevoix, I was the epitome of what's known as a wipeout yard sale: skis and poles strewn around, as though laid out on display for Sunday morning bargain hunters. My pride was in tatters, and my heart was still pounding.

It was hubris that brought me here. At age 46, I've been learning to be an "avid skier." There are many reasons for this midlife hobby: being stuck inside all winter is boring and sad. Skiing is sporty and youthful. My husband adores snowboarding, and my two daughters started barrelling down hills the moment they put on skis. Now, at ages eight and 10, they fearlessly pinball past me, hollering at me to catch up.

Fine, I'm slow. But the idea of sitting on the sidelines, watching my loved ones embrace the thrills of winter without me, spurred a fear deeper than any slope. I was determined to show them, and myself, that neither my age nor skill level would keep me from sharing in our winter adventures. So, when an invitation arose this winter to ski the highest vertical drop east of the Canadian Rockies, I seized the opportunity.

Yet here I was, sprawled in the snow. Le Massif isn't your average ski hill. It's an "upsidedown" mountain shaped by a meteorite impact 400 million years ago. Instead of rising from the ground, it slopes down from a flat summit, so at moments you feel as if you're about to ski straight into the icy clutches of the St. Lawrence River.

Perhaps it was this daunting view that rattled me. Or I hit a bump at the wrong angle. Maybe it was the ill-fitting men's racing boots paired with kidsize skis that I had naively snagged from the swap store in Toronto. Whatever it was, I fell spectacularly hard. The thud left my body uninjured but shattered my confidence.