The Joy of Being a Perpetual Beginner: Why Small Ski Hills Are the Soul of the Sport

It started with a rope-tow slope behind an apartment building in the Chicago suburbs, with a $25 deal for the evening’s ticket and renting skis. Even traffic looked nice from atop the miniature hill: that grid of lights in the distance, beneath a big, dark sky. I hadn’t downhill skied since a few weekend attempts in junior high, but I’d recently tried out a ski simulator, and it inspired me to get back out. The skis were heavier than I remembered. I snowplowed at first, then turned carefully side to side. The location was Four Lakes in Lisle, Illinois, a place that serves as a living monument to the "feeder hill" era of American skiing. These small, often overlooked slopes are the unsung heroes of the outdoor industry, providing a low-stakes entry point for those who might otherwise be priced out of the sport’s increasingly gilded gates.

The skier in front of me was a Russian real-estate agent with a live Pomeranian sticking its head out of her backpack. The Pomeranian wore pink bows and seemed very relaxed. It flattened its ears when she picked up speed. I followed them down. The absurdity of the scene—a lapdog navigating a suburban Illinois slope—encapsulated the democratic, unpretentious spirit that the larger, corporate-owned mega-resorts have largely lost. In these small spaces, the performance-driven culture of the "pro" skier evaporates, replaced by a chaotic, joyful tapestry of humanity.

“Wow,” said a man at the bottom, as I coasted to a stop. “You’re really good.” This was not true, but it still made me proud. “Thanks,” I said, beaming. “This is the first day I’ve skied in 20 years.” The man’s response was even more revealing: “This is the first day I’ve seen snow in my life. I flew in from Singapore today. But I’ve been watching ski tutorials on TikTok.”

It was a Tuesday night and we were practically alone on the hill—the Russian woman and her tiny dog, the Singaporean man, and me. We cheered on each others’ runs and waved goodbye at the evening’s end without exchanging names. It felt like the ski world was very small and we would surely cross paths later on. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such instant alignment with strangers, such comfort at trying something new. It was the start of my obsession, this winter, with skiing alone as a beginner, and I’ve become quite convinced that there are few better sports in the world to attempt solo as an adult.

The accessibility of these "micro-hills" cannot be overstated. According to the National Ski Areas Association (NSAA), the number of operating ski areas in the United States has declined significantly since the 1980s, often due to the consolidation of resorts and the rising costs of snowmaking and insurance. However, the hills that remain—like Four Lakes—serve a vital demographic. Being a "good" skier is an expensive, all-encompassing pursuit. Between high-end shells, carbon-fiber poles, and $1,000 boots, the barrier to entry for "expert" status is steep. But if you’re bad at it, the world opens up. You can visit the dinkiest hills and still get a cardiovascular workout and a technical challenge for less than the cost of a boutique pilates class. These little hills have short lines, or no lines at all. You can drop in for two hours without feeling the "sunk cost" guilt of a $200 lift ticket, making it possible to swing by after work and before dinner.

For a beginner using rentals, the joy is found in the simple mechanics of gliding. There is a specific, tactile satisfaction in the mechanical hum of a rope tow—a piece of technology that predates the high-speed quad chairs of the Rockies but requires a surprising amount of upper-body engagement. After a couple of sessions, the physical benefits become apparent; my arms felt "buff," a byproduct of the constant tension required to stay upright while being pulled uphill by a literal rope.

Beyond the physical, there is a profound psychological benefit to beginnerhood. In Zen Buddhism, the concept of Shoshin, or "beginner’s mind," refers to having an attitude of openness and lack of preconceptions when studying a subject. As a mother of twin toddlers, my daily life is a rigid architecture of measured, intentional steps. At home, I am the planner, the safety officer, and the scheduler. On the ski hill, I am none of those things. I am not thinking; I am reacting. Turn right! Turn left! Take a break! Grab the rope again! It feels, delightfully, like being a kid myself, playing alone or making friends on the swings as I see fit.

This newfound obsession eventually led me to the Sierra Nevada. A few weeks into my suburban sessions, I was invited on a ski trip to Lake Tahoe. I spent my first day at Mount Rose-Ski Tahoe, a medium-sized resort on the Nevada side that boasts the highest base elevation in the region. Mount Rose occupies a sweet spot in the industry: large enough to offer genuine mountain terrain, but small enough to maintain a local, community-focused atmosphere. The sky was an impossible blue, and the sun was warm against the granite outcroppings and scraggly pines.

Compared to the 100-foot vertical drop in Illinois, the slopes at Mount Rose felt infinite. I met a 71-year-old cowboy on the lift, a man whose face was a map of decades spent in the high desert sun. We waved each time we passed. At one point, I found myself stuck mid-hill, paralyzed by a patch of ice. I noticed another skier watching me from below. When I finally navigated the section and made it down, he lifted his arms in a triumphant cheer.

I rode with him on the lift back up. His name was Kurt, and he hadn’t skied in 40 years. He had grown up in the area, volunteering at Mount Rose during his elementary school years just to earn a free pass. Now living in Philadelphia, he had returned to visit his mother and decided to face the mountain of his youth. As we looked out over the navy-blue expanse of Lake Tahoe in the distance, I asked him, “Why do I live somewhere without mountains?” He looked at the horizon and replied, “I’m asking myself the same thing.”

The following day, emboldened by my success at Mount Rose, I decided to tackle a titan: Palisades Tahoe. Known historically as Squaw Valley and the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics, Palisades is the epicenter of "extreme" ski culture. Skiing there as a beginner felt like parachuting into Disney World without ever having seen a cartoon. The atmosphere was thick with "intention." The equipment was cutting-edge, the speeds were terrifying, and the après-ski bars sizzled with the energy of people who had spent the day hucking themselves off cliffs.

The social hierarchy at a mega-resort is palpable. At the local bakery, a sign informed patrons that cookies were free for Olympic gold and silver medalists, while bronze medalists were told to "try harder." It was a joke, but it underscored the high-performance ethos of the place. I got lost almost immediately. On the miles of interconnected slopes, I sought directions from a group of teenage boys. They told me to turn left, and when I followed their advice, they laughed maniacally. I soon realized why: the "trail" I had chosen dropped like the crest of a waterfall. I spent the next hour skidding sideways in slow motion down a black diamond run, my life flashing before my eyes. In those moments of terror, my mind drifted back to the friendly septuagenarians at Mount Rose and the Pomeranian in the Chicago suburbs. I realized then that I had strayed too far from the soul of the sport.

The modern ski industry is currently caught in a tug-of-war. On one side are the mega-passes like Epic and Ikon, which have made skiing more affordable for frequent travelers but have also led to overcrowding and a "corporate" feel at major destinations. On the other side is the burgeoning "Indie Pass" movement, which unites smaller, independent resorts under a single banner, celebrating the unique character of hills that prioritize community over profit margins.

My experience solidified my allegiance to the latter. I don’t want to be a "better" skier in the traditional sense. I don’t want to conquer couloirs or navigate moguls with surgical precision. I like dipping my toes. I want cheap hills, $4 chili, and women who ski at a strolling pace with their pets. I want to return to Mount Rose on a quiet Tuesday when the lines are nonexistent and the mountain feels like a grand, private adventure.

Furthermore, there is a generational urgency to this perspective. I want to teach my children to ski on a slope we could walk up. I want them to understand that the joy of the outdoors isn’t contingent on the vertical drop or the brand of their goggles. There are so many ways to get down a mountain—slalom skis, telemark setups, snowboards, or those "skiskates" that look like inline skates for the snow. This variety is reassuring. If I get comfortable on one, I can simply switch to another and become a beginner all over again. In a world that demands constant mastery and "optimization," there is a quiet, radical power in choosing to stay a beginner for good. By embracing the small hills, we preserve the accessibility of the sport and ensure that the next Singaporean traveler or suburban mom has a place to find their own "instant alignment" with the snow.