Stepping stones: It takes three lessons to learn curling—but the camaraderie is instant

The temperature dropped as I—and 13 others—walked from the club room at Lake Tahoe Epic Curling into the arena, where smooth ice extended out before us. We were there to learn to curl.  

Others chatted and laughed, but I was having flashbacks of almost killing myself falling down an icy double black diamond at Telluride. I hate ice. I’m terrified of it. 

I was a first-timer, attending the second of a three-part workshop. Four others had also missed the first class. We were grouped together on the first of two lanes (“sheets”) that run the length of the building. LTEC president Shelley Morassutti led our group; the second-timers were on the next sheet, helped by two volunteers. 

Morassutti directed us to our first task: pushing off from the “hack,” a foothold embedded in the ice. My attention to the maneuver was superficial; I was mesmerized by the clarity and depth of the ice. It reminded me of looking at a rock underneath the surface of Lake Tahoe. Or a siren calling me to my death. 

Morassutti passed around a “slider”—a slick piece of plastic that goes under the foot. She explained that we had to be careful, that we must maintain balance, and if we fell, we needed to tuck and roll. A cold sweat swept down my body. I touched the Ice Halo Morassutti suggested we wrap around our heads and wondered how a half-inch piece of protective foam headgear could save my skull from breaking open all over this perfectly manicured ice. 

Morassutti advised us to use two stones—the smooth, 40-pound granite rounds that curlers slide across the ice. Normally, you’d only use one, but as beginners, we used one in each hand to practice our balance. Balance, balance, balance––the biggest contradiction to ice, and the most important aspect of this game.  

Morassutti told us to pull our bodies back, then shoot out like a spring to increase our power. 

Our group included a couple in their late 40s or early 50s, and two guys in their early 30s, plus me, a slightly chubby 30-year-old with poor hand-eye coordination. The husband of the couple slid out awkwardly, but without falling. The stones were loud as they moved across the ice––like hearing a low-flying plane from inside a building. 

I was last to go. I placed my right foot on the hack, then the left on the slider (confirming that yes, this thing is slick), and took a stone in each hand. I inhaled a deep breath, and then pushed off. My mind hopped around with adrenaline. My body shook. My toe flexed on the ice. I felt that rush, the one of never being able to stop. My heart was pounding. 

I made it about three feet from the hack—the shortest distance of anyone in our group. I stood up slowly, took a deep breath, and exhaled a laugh. 

“Try that again,” Morassutti told me, wearing a kind, encouraging smile. We kept at it, trading one of the stones in our hands for a balancing stick, eventually making it farther onto the ice. 

I looked at our neighboring sheet, where the second-timers were practicing. There didn’t seem to be a discernible difference between our group and theirs in gender, age range or physique—but there was a major difference in talent. Later, as we walked back into the clubhouse, someone commented that they noticed a significant jump in ability from their first session to the second. It only takes three lessons, Morassutti said, before someone is good enough to start coming to drop-in classes and playing real games. 

Our group gained confidence. We started releasing the stone, and then we started talking about technique. The stones don’t slide across the ice in a straight line—they curl (get it?), and one of the most important techniques is to learn how to manipulate this movement. 

We began a game. Typically, two teams of four each throw eight stones toward a target made of two concentric circles, like a dartboard. The closest stones to the center earn points. Players collaborate by “sweeping”—melting the ice with a smooth brush—when their teammates throw, helping to navigate or speed up the stone. 

Our team won both games we played. Our teammates cheered us on. So did our opponents and random second-timers on the sheet next to us. The hall was loud with shouts of “Sweep!” and “Yes!” and “Good shot!” 

Morassutti explained the etiquette: “It’s called a gentleman’s sport. If someone makes a bad shot, there’s no heckling. It’s the opposite version of football. … It’s a very collaborative sport.” 

Each player shakes hands with (or fist bumps) all of their teammates and opponents, saying something like “good game” before and after the game. Morassutti had us practice this, too. 

Etiquette also demands that players participate in something called broomstacking at the end of the game: This means going back into the clubhouse—or nearest pub—and enjoying a drink together. Winners buy. 

“You have to come and broomstack for a little bit,” Morassutti said. “If you want to be a member of the club, this is part of the rules.”  

Morassutti, who moved to South Lake Tahoe as an adult, joined the club to meet people. “Two out of three of my better girlfriends from here are from curling, just because it’s a community,” she said. 

In the clubhouse, everyone grabbed a drink and a snack. The room was louder than it had been at the beginning of the night. Most of us stayed until 8:45, a full 45 minutes after the lesson ended. 

“It’s a school night!” someone exclaimed, and we nodded, grabbing our coats and keys. I took one last look at the sheets.  

I was hooked. 

Lake Tahoe Epic Curling is located at 128 Market St., No. 1A, in Stateline. Those proficient in the sport can attend drop-in classes. The next Learn to Curl series runs Mondays, Feb. 3 and 10, and March 3, from 6 to 8 p.m. The three-part series costs $100 and includes gear and broomstacking drinks. To register, visit laketahoecurling.com.