The scenery from the chair lift took my breath away. The dazzling whiteness of the vast, rugged Cascade Range of the Pacific Northwest felt a million miles from everything I had left behind in the UK. Skiing was new to us but my husband and five-year-old were already shredding the mountain. Even our two-year-old was fearless on tiny skis and boots.

I was still taking it all in, still nervous, still trying to ‘pizza’ my way to a safe stop on a run that barely boasted a 10% gradient. My aim was to conquer this benign ‘green’ run, affectionately called the bunny slope, which still felt like a vertical drop to beginners like me making their debut runs clamped into long, narrow planks with no brakes. I’d already wiped out several times, once when I’d been standing still.

It was with horror and disbelief that I was jolted from my reverie, watching my ‘stop’ go sailing by a couple of hundred feet away. I was on the wrong lift.

<i>‘Excuse me!’</i> I shouted to the snowy dude operating the lift once I had managed to alight. <i>‘How can I get down the mountain, please? Do I get the lift again? I’ve come up on the wrong one.’</i>

Wait, was he smirking?

<i>‘Ma’am,’</i> he said, <i>‘the only way down this mountain is that way.’ </i>

He pointed to where dozens of experienced skiers were launching themselves over a precipice and disappearing from view down the steep slopes of an advanced ‘blue’ run.

<i>‘Oh, no,’</i> I said. <i>‘I’m on greens. I got on the wrong lift. I can’t ski a blue, I ski the bunny slopes,’</i> I repeated, no doubt looking appropriately like a rabbit in headlights.

<i>‘Anything wrong with your legs, lady? Any broken bones, injuries?’</i>

<i>‘Well, no,’</i> I admitted, <i>‘but that’s sort of what I’m trying to avoid.’</i>

<i>‘Look ma’am,’</i> he said. <i>‘You can either ski down the mountain or you can take your skis off and walk. I suggest giving the skiing a go.’</i>

I’ll never forget the fear of that journey down the mountain; the terror, the biting cold, the near-misses, the actual tumbles, the pain, mental pep-talks, frustration and tears. I found my husband and kids back at base.

<i>‘We’ve been looking for you,’</i> they said.

<i>‘I got on the wrong lift,’ I said, breathless and broken. ‘I had to go down the blue. I went down the blue run.’</i>

My husband laughed.

<i>‘Want a hot chocolate?’</i> he asked.

I shook my head, no.

<i>‘I want to go again.’ </i>

I shuffled off to join the line for the blue lift, tears of homesickness and determination hidden behind my goggles.