What SNowboarding in Japan taught me about storytelling
Each morning a thick white blanket would cover everything. It was a fresh start each day. Small tracks would be sprinkled in the snow - rabbits, birds, even monkeys. On the mountain there were even more stories to be discovered. Sometimes single tracks, and others were in pairs. Some tracks would end abruptly in a splat with an uneven trail doubling back. Others would break away in a clean line from the main trail and thread themselves through trees that initially appeared unwelcoming. From the chair lift a clear story could be seen. Broad swooping turns, a large interruption in the track after a steep roll, and straight lines all the way from top to bottom.
Take a moment to think and the tracks all paint a clear picture. It’s easy to see what happened but that’s because we can step back and look at the whole thing. It’s much more difficult when the rider is still making the track. Harder still when you’re the one making the track. The fresh snow is a blank canvas. Where do you go, what story do you tell? Do you dare to make your own or simply follow along in someone elses?
Thousands of people visit Japan every year for the chance to ride on the best snow in the world. It’s my job to help people learn how to explore the mountain. It’s easy to get caught up in the finer details of how to be good at snowboarding, but I’m often more than just a teacher. At its core, I am a guide offering simple things like dinner recommendations and bus stop locations. On rare occasions, it's no longer teacher and student, but two old friends connecting as if they had known each other forever. For many people I’m not just helping them make tracks in the snow.
For a father I gave his son a glimpse into a possible future. After the lesson, we shared a drink and the son eagerly asked me how he could do what I do. I laid it out for him and it was easier than he expected. He had the riding skills, now all he needed was to learn to teach. The father walked away with a memory. The son walked away with a possibility.
Looking back, I remember very little about the exact turns we made down the mountain. What I remember are the people: A father and his two sons seeing powder for the first time. Two sisters pushing each other to be better. An older woman determined to hit her first jump. Friends I never expected to meet on the other side of the world. The tracks disappeared with each new snowfall, but the stories remained. Our stories intersect, influence one another, and continue long after the moment has passed. Most of the time we don't even realize it until we can step back and see the entire track.