SUMMER IN HOOD, SUMMED UP

Mt. Hood is a funny place.

It’s where athletes go to train, but it’s also where they learn how to wake up before sunrise, keep track of their gear, make new friends, and figure things out when nothing goes according to plan.

For me, those lessons started early.

I'm Hailey, the Sales & Marketing Manager at SYNC, which means I get the fun job of writing these blogs. I'm also a "retired" ski racer. (The quotation marks feel important, considering my ski racing career peaked at my first FIS race, which was also my last. Deeply humbling.)

I grew up in Truckee, California, where skiing was a big part of life. My parents both worked in the ski industry, and my older brother raced through college at Dartmouth. Thanks to a PR trade my mom arranged with Mt. Hood Summer Ski Camps, I got the chance to go for the first time when I was nine. I had no idea then, but that one week would end up teaching me a lot about growing up.

I was small, painfully shy, and absolutely convinced my parents were making a terrible decision by dropping me off.

Within the first ten minutes, I'd seen unsupervised kids throwing flips on the in-ground comp trampolines, a ski room that looked like a yard sale after a tornado, unlimited soda, and enough organized chaos to make my little-kid brain short-circuit. My dad helped me claim a top bunk, showed me how to set my tiny alarm clock, wished me luck... and drove away.

I was certain I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

The week didn't exactly improve right away.

It was a miracle I even made it onto the bus the first few mornings, having very little concept of time yet. I could never get my skis out of the trailer because they were always buried underneath everyone else’s. It was basically a giant game of pick-up sticks. On the first day, I packed a sandwich that turned into a soggy blob after my water bottle leaked in my pack on the hill.

I was constantly trying to figure out where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing, and how everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. I felt like a lost little kid, wandering around looking for a familiar face to tell me I was doing okay.

I got hopelessly homesick. Then I got actually sick.

One morning, I woke up wildly unwell. After crying to my mom from the camp pay phone, I missed breakfast, missed making a lunch, forgot to grab my water bottle, and sprinted to the bus in tears. When we got to the Timberline parking lot, my unstrapped skis were completely mixed up in the open trailer. My poles were tangled with all the rest. I was completely defeated.

Then I felt a firm hand settle on my slumped shoulder. I looked up.

There was my dad. He was staying in Hood for some work (and likely keeping a quiet eye on his very homesick 9-year-old from across the parking lot every morning).

A familiar face. The best familiar face. I completely lost whatever strength I had left to hold it together.

I grabbed onto him and begged him to take me home.

Instead, he walked me into the lodge, bought me a bagel and an overpriced purple Nalgene water bottle with the Timberline logo on it, and told me to get back out there. He told me I was going to be okay. Later that evening, he came to check on me at camp. I pleaded with him again to let me leave and stay wherever he was staying.

He smiled.

"Trust me," he said. "This is much nicer than where I’m staying."

So I stayed.

I skied sick. I survived. I made friends. I set my alarm clock a bit earlier. I learned to pack my lunch before eating breakfast so there were still cookies and snacks left. I started placing my (now-double-strapped) skis onto the top of the trailer before everyone else’s buried them. I was figuring it out. I had it dialed. And without totally realizing it, I started having fun.

At the end of the week, my dad picked me up and drove me to the condo where he had been staying.

It was... really nice.

There was even an extra room. At camp, I’d been sleeping on the top bunk of a rickety steel-framed bunk bed in a room with 12 other girls.

Nine-year-old me felt just a little betrayed.

Thirty-year-old me realizes my dad knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't trying to make me suffer. He was making sure I didn't quit something just because it was hard.

I went back to Mt. Hood every summer until I was sixteen.

Somewhere between the insanely tired legs, early mornings, carsick bus rides, river rafting, goggle tans, unlimited root beers, and countless hours chasing gates, Hood became a place I couldn't wait to go back to.

I started flying there alone, one-week sessions turned into two, and I made friends from all over the world. As I got older, I started noticing the kids who looked the way I had at nine: a little overwhelmed, a little lost, and searching for someone familiar. So I became the person to tell them they were doing okay.

I still have my purple Timberline Nalgene.

Every time I use it, I'm reminded that growth usually starts with feeling completely out of your comfort zone.

I didn't know it then, but I was learning a lot more than how to be a faster ski racer.

“You learn to be responsible for yourself and your stuff. You have to stay organized, manage your time, and make sure you have everything you need for the day. Pro tip: don't forget your skis in the parking lot on the last day of camp!”

“The days are long, so you learn how to manage your time and figure out what needs to get done. You become a lot more independent.”

“You figure out pretty quickly how to get yourself ready and where you need to be. At an age you wouldn't think you'd need to have it all figured out.”