The ski season was winding down in March 2025 when I found myself online, cursor hovering over the “First-Time Lesson Package, Snowboard” option at Mt. Rose Ski Tahoe. Was I ready to try a new sport at 51 years old? One fee covered a two-hour session with a professional instructor, beginner lift access and rental equipment. Add to cart.
During Thanksgiving 2024—my boyfriend, a snowboarder and Mount Rose season pass holder—returned home in pain. After riding all afternoon, his board slipped on “dust on crust.” He landed hard on his outstretched arm, jamming it into his shoulder. During our seven years of dating, he had yet to seriously injure himself at Mount Rose, Palisades Tahoe, Sugar Bowl or Northstar. He was mad at himself for not riding in control. Despite the festive holiday season, the fall had taken a toll on his spirit.
Attempting to cheer him up, I bought a variety of critically acclaimed winter-sports books. Among these was Eric Blehm’s adventure biography, The Darkest White: A Mountain Legend and the Avalanche That Took Him. While my grouchy boyfriend focused on physical recovery and mental self-flagellation, I nudged the cover open myself.
The Darkest White instantly captured my imagination. Beautifully written and meticulously researched, it traces the origins of snowboarding—its clashes with traditional ski culture, the rise of competitions in the 1980s and ’90s, the Burton-Sims rivalry, the riders who carried a fringe pastime into a mainstream sport, and the exhilaration of freeriding set against the stark dangers of mountaineering. It also chronicles the cinematic life and death of self-taught snowboarding legend Craig Kelly—my newest literary crush.
In early March, I put down the book and picked up a snowboard. In recent years, I’ve navigated a divorce from my college sweetheart, the sale of my cherished home, several relocations to new towns, and the pruning of unhealthy friendships that had become more thorn than rose. Coping with the stress took various forms: prescription Vicodin before COVID-19; excessive cocktails before, during and after the pandemic; and the gilded cage of a shopping addiction. In September 2023, I boarded a plane in Reno. One day later, I stepped off a plane in Rome. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I turned 50. I had entered the last half of my life. Carpe diem.
With a freshly waxed rental snowboard and an idiot’s enthusiasm, I arrived at Mount Rose’s 8,260-foot base elevation. The class was a mix of fresh-faced newbies of various ages—some wary, some calm, some ready to shred. Our teachers were two 20-somethings with trendy names and a tenuous grasp on our group’s skill set, or so it seemed to me. You want us to ride our snowboards down a short, steep hill to get to the base of the actual beginner hill? Did I miss the intro class for this intro class?
Though I could dance in stilettos at the Grand Sierra Resort, skate at Roller Kingdom, bike the Truckee River Trail and complete the Wobble Before You Gobble 5k in a turkey costume, I could only stand on my snowboard for mere moments before falling hard, only to bruise like a ripe summer peach.
After a frustrating hour of not being able to stand on my board and make it go downhill, I sat down on the cold snow, resigned. I watched my more-advanced classmates exit the top of the Magic dual conveyor lift, pause to strap on their back boot, and tentatively start their descent with varying degrees of success.
My inner monologue turned cold and critical. If I was truly having a midlife crisis, then perhaps it was all downhill from here. If you couldn’t succeed in a snowboarding beginner class, you might as well pack it in and go home. Book a cruise to Alaska. That’s as close to the snow as you should go. You missed your window, kid.
My boyfriend encouraged me to try, try again. Despite the popular opinion that you should never teach your significant other to ski or snowboard, he secured my boots into the bindings, pulled me up, and had me shimmy back and forth on the flat snow. After a while, he dropped his hands and stepped back. The snowboard slipped. Expletives slipped. I was on my ass again. I flipped over and pushed myself back to a standing position.
Forty-five minutes later, the snowboard felt like an extension of my body, using toe and heel edges to balance. Later that afternoon, at Timbers bar inside the main lodge, I sipped a well-earned hot toddy and felt a camaraderie with the other skiers and snowboarders that had eluded me when I was only an après-ski enthusiast.
One week later, I repeated the intro class—this time with a smaller group and an experienced instructor, Steven K. He greeted us warmly, led us down to the beginner hill, and taught us how to fall backward safely. Falling forward, on our forearms, we made “fists to save our wrists.”
Shuffling our boards through the conveyor queue with our free back foot, we headed uphill. At the top, Steven broke down our next steps. Students were sprinkled all over the slope, each sliding off in their own direction. Beginning skiers used “pizza” and “French fry” techniques. Everyone fell and rose repeatedly; there was no room for ego.
Following the lesson, things started to click—exhausted yet exhilarated, practicing toeside and heelside turns, falling down repeatedly, and pushing myself back up. The faster I rode downhill, the more stable the snowboard became. Watching experienced snowboarders, I admired their relaxed posture and confident technique.
In my sleep, I carved wide arcs down a steep white hill, blue water below, my brain lit up with dopamine. Waking up, however, was a serious struggle as my body was consumed by soreness that defied description. Despite the aches and pains, I was determined to continue.
I purchased the “Mt. Rose DoubleDown Pass, Off-Peak” for $695, which allowed me to enjoy the remainder of the 2024-’25 season and the entire 2025-’26 season. As a small-business owner, a wedding and event planner for the past 20 years, real mountains reduced my stress levels far more than any alpine desktop wallpaper ever could. After an hour or two immersed in white snow, green pines and blue sky, I’d return to my office, refreshed.
I shopped locally at Bobo’s and Truckee Boardhouse for new snowboarding equipment and at Gear Hut for gently used consignment items. I cross-referenced online product reviews. I bought a pair of Level snowboarding gloves with built-in wrist guards. I studied snowboarding videos on YouTube, most notably by Tommie Bennett. I proudly curated a “Snowboard Aesthetic” Pinterest board.
I kept snowboarding—twice a week for a month—and kept improving, until the day the snow hardened; the conditions sucked, and I fell repeatedly. Pain radiated from deep inside my shoulder, severe enough that I couldn’t sleep for two nights. Fine. I’d go to urgent care. It felt serious. But after multiple X-rays, an arm sling, a bottle of prescription anti-inflammatories and three days of rest, I was ready to ride again.
Determined to finish the season strong, I booked a private lesson with Steven. He identified my strengths and weaknesses and helped me connect the dots. I practiced J-turns—riding downhill, then turning left or right and stopping when the snowboard ran parallel to the horizon.
Next, I linked a heel turn with a toe turn and back to a heel turn, creating a serpentine S-turn down the hill. Steven asked if I was ready to learn how to get on and off a chairlift on a snowboard. I laughed and replied, “Next season.” After a hearty lunch and plenty of water, my boyfriend and I said a fond farewell to Mount Rose for the season.
On Sunday, April 27, 2025, the weather was cold and wet. With my weekend guests gone and my boyfriend out of town, I planned to spend a peaceful day with a glowing fire, a movie and two snuggly dogs. But a voice from the ghost of childhood whispered, “Go play outside.”
An hour later, I was cruising up the Mount Rose Highway, snowboard belted to the flattened passenger seat. Incredibly, the last day of the season was a “powder day,” and what a celebration it was. People were smiling, laughing, hugging, eating, drinking, shopping, skiing and snowboarding.
S-turning down the hill was a rush. It was the closest I’d ever felt to flying. Stopping my board at the bottom of the hill, in control, brought a deeply optimistic feeling. My “midlife crisis” wasn’t a crisis at all, but an awakening. Playing it safe had been killing me.
Timbers bar was packed, and the line for drinks was long. A bartender, setting down my drink, asked, “You’re one of the girls learning to snowboard this season, right?” I was taken aback but replied, “Yes. Yes I am.”
Wendy Wittmann is the owner of Reno-Tahoe Weddings and Events.