For outdoors writer, it was TIME to learn cross-country skiing

Once a decade or so I click into a pair of cross-country skis, determined to add nordic skiing to my quiver of outdoor passions. But inevitably, 90 minutes later, there I am sitting on the snow, discouraged and dejected, while struggling mightily to remove the long, skinny skis that I vow I'll never ever affix to the bottoms of my feet again.

So for my latest once-a-decade attempt, I did something I'd never done before: I took an early season introductory cross-country ski lesson to learn what I'm actually supposed to do. All I can say is: Duh, why didn't I do this sooner?

"Push off like you're pushing off when you ride a scooter," Stephanie Blue, my instructor, tells me early in the lesson.

To work on my balance and get a feel for "body weight transfer" Blue has me start out by wearing only one ski. With my right ski-wearing foot in the groomed track and my left un-skied foot in the snow, I push off like I do when I've commandeered my 10-year-old's scooter for a jaunt around the block. My early pushes feature a few awkward side-to-side bobbles but soon enough, I get a sense of that gliding-through-the-snow sensation that looks so graceful and fun but has always eluded me.

"That's it — wicked!" the 25-year-old Blue shouts encouragingly. (I think.)

Skiing to scale

We're at the Nordic Learning Area at Manning Park ski area in British Columbia, which features about a dozen 100-yard lengths of groomed cross-country track set side-by-side so that newbies can practice. After working on left foot-only skiing, Blue has me practice the push-off with both skis on.

"Really get a feeling for those scales," she says, referring to the scales on the underside of each ski that grip the snow and help the skier push off. (And which I never noticed before in my previous attempts.) "That's it — wicked."

Blue has me add poles and with each out-and-back jog at the practice area, I'm able to glide a little bit more and I begin to understand the allure of nordic skiing. But then it's time for what I've been dreading: learning how to go downhill on cross-country skis, my various attempts at which have always been my downfall. The snowplow position just seems unnatural to me and whenever I attempt it I visualize every ligament in both my knees being ripped to shreds.

So when Blue leads me to the top of what is really just a minor snowy bump and instructs me to bend my knees in and point the tips of my skis toward each other in the pizza-wedge shape, it's much of the same. No matter what I do my ski tips cross, my legs are yanked unnaturally far apart, and I fear for the fate of my ACLs and MCLs. (It's not the least bit "wicked.")

So we go onto something else. We ski around a bit on a flat beginner loop, and I let all the pieces sort of fit together and get to know each other. A gentle snow has begun to fall and other than a raven's guttural croaking echoing across the valley, all is a muffled silence. The sense of peace is breathtaking.

Soon, the skis begin to feel like they're just an extension of my feet, and I'm ready to give the hill another try. And wonder of wonders: I got it. I can snowplow down the mini-bump feeling completely in control. Most important, my knees feel safe. So I do it again. And again. And again.

"That's it ... " Blue says.

And I finish her thought: "Wicked."

And I know that my once-a-decade days are a thing of the past.

Mike McQuaide is a Bellingham freelance writer and author of "Day Hike! Central Cascades" (Sasquatch Books) and "Insiders' Guide Bellingham and Mount Baker" (Globe Pequot). He can be reached at mikemcquaide@comcast.net.