Back in the 90s my father to us on ski trip to the Rockies. We grew up in the midwest, and even though snowboards were still new, we were masters of the tiny mounds we call ski hills in Wisconsin.

Before he would let us go on our own, my dad insisted we take a lesson. When the instructor asked what we wanted to learn, I said “Jumping cliffs and tree skiing”.

We went up the highest lift, and then proceeded to hike another half hour. Well above the tree line, on a narrow ridge, the instructor stops, straps in, and says we are dropping in here. He asks one last time if this is what we want to do, then he went off the damned cliff.

So now my brother and I, both teenagers from Chicago, are alone on the top of this mountain watching our guide shrink off in the distance.

We looked at each other in disbelief, and realised we were either doing this, or walking another half hour back down without a guide.

Strapping in and psyching myself up to push off into what seemed like open sky was maybe the biggest “Wait, how the hell did I end up in this situation” moments of my life.