When life goes sideways

In a rare pocket of quiet after the Christmas teaching rush in Banff, when the lifts slow and the mountains seem to exhale, I find myself looking back. Not at a single season, but at the long, winding line that began the first time I stepped sideways onto snow.

I was never a natural. I didn’t grow up chasing winters or learning to read terrain as a second language. My beginning was small and unremarkable: supportive parents, a restless itch, and the simple pull of an image. That looks cool. At sixteen, I spotted a school trip to the Alps and asked my mum if I could go. She said yes — but only if I learned beforehand. So I found myself in an indoor snowdome, under fluorescent lights, snow scraped thin and grey, learning clumsy turns on borrowed edges. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough to open a door.

Weeks later, the Alps rose in front of me — vast, white, and impossibly real. The air is sharper. The light is brighter. Snowboarders were split into two groups; never-ever and been-before. I was pushed into the latter, lagging behind kids who already carried themselves with confidence. My legs burned, my pride took hits, and fear followed close behind. But somewhere between falling, standing back up and sliding forward again, something lodged itself deep inside me. The seed was planted quietly, without ceremony.

It revealed itself slowly. In the sound of snow under my base. In the way cold air stung my lungs on the first run of the day. In the hush of lift rides, dangling feet above trees dusted white. I began to notice how time softened in the mountains, how movement could feel both powerful and calm. I didn’t yet have words for it. I had only the certainty that this was where I felt most alive.

Before I knew what I wanted to study or where I was meant to land, that feeling carried me across the Atlantic to Marmot Basin, Jasper, Alberta, for my first instructor qualifications. Riding and learning every day in beautiful mountains the feeling took shape. Evenings were spent tired and buzzing, boots stacked by doors, gloves drying, conversations stretching late into the night. I fell in love not just with snowboarding but with the rhythm of winter life and the generosity of the mountain community. I knew I would return to Canada even if I didn’t yet know how.

When it came time for university I chose Scotland for one simple reason. It was as close to snow as I could get in the UK; wind-scoured hills, driving sleet, rope tows, and rare bluebird days that felt hard-earned. I joined the snow sports society, worked at Hillend dry slope, and chased winter whenever it showed itself. The Highlands taught me patience and commitment. I learned that even marginal conditions can still offer something meaningful if you show up for them.

After university I followed that pull back to Canada. I landed in Smithers, Northern British Columbia. Hudson Bay mountain resort has old chairs, T-bars, and locals who knew every fold of the mountain. Teaching kids, riding uncrowded slopes and becoming a part of close-knit crew sharpened my sense of direction.

Then came Banff. The Canadian Rockies felt different immediately. Dramatic mountain vistas. Almost spiritual. The peaks didn’t ask for attention, they demanded respect. Storm days wrapped the valley in silence. Clear days revealed depth and scale that never failed to astonish. Teaching there brought clarity. Helping someone trust their edges, find flow, or simply breathe through fear feels deeply human. Snowboarding stopped being something I chased and became something I shared. 

There were detours, as there always are. Japan, with relentless snowfall, long workdays, and steam rising from onsens at night. Years of study in Nelson BC, learning the ski industry from the inside while riding one of the most soulful mountains I’ve known. Whitewater holds a special place in my heart. Visas expired. Seasons ended. Goodbyes were said. Yet the pull never weakened.

Since 2019 I’ve worked across Banff’s SkiBig3 — Sunshine village, Lake Louise, and Mount Norquay. Becoming a CASI evaluator closed a circle I didn’t know I had started, allowing me to guide and certify instructors finding their own way into this lifestyle.

The Rockies have a way of calling you back, season after season. No matter where I’ve been, they have drawn me home with their scale, their silence, their stubborn, unyielding presence. Teaching and riding are more than work — they are life itself, a constant dialogue between body, mountain, and those I have the privilege to guide. The peaks remain as powerful as ever, the storms as humbling, the mornings as magical. I am grateful for every turn, every tired run, every person I’ve watched discover what it feels like to trust themselves on snow.

My pursuit of snowboarding has taken me across the planet. It has given me a sense of home and community. It continues to offer direction and has given me more than I could ever have imagined. 

Peter Rothery