It was a perfect Colorado morning. I was drinking a Mexican mocha, listening to Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” album and heading to the slopes to ski.

The mountains were glowing in the sunrise. It was such a perfect moment I could not help but think I was bound for trouble, like crashing head-first into a tree.

To be more precise, I was going to learn how to ski, not such an easy task for a klutz like me who doesn’t roller skate or water ski. That yoga pose where you clasp your hands in prayer position and balance on one toe? Not happening.

But I couldn’t resist a learn-to-ski program at Purgatory at Durango Mountain Resort. To live here and not attempt to ski would be pretty lame. I didn’t want to be like the whiners I used to know back in Florida. They complain about the humidity, the slow drivers and the bugs, but they never go to the beach, either.

Then self-doubts grew while waiting in line for registration and rental equipment. It was a friendlier version of going through airport security, but I was made aware of lurking terrors all the same. A liability waiver informed me that skiing is an “inherently dangerous sport.”

Oh, great, I thought, I am going to attempt an “inherently dangerous sport,” and my work’s health insurance had not even kicked in yet. What was I getting myself into? I can be happy just going to a movie, I thought. What was playing at the Storyteller?

The woman behind me in the registration line talked about how she went snowboarding while pregnant. She cooed to her baby, “You’ve been snowboarding. You just don’t know it.”

I was in a strange place, but I was already locked into my ski boots to turn away. Dutch Malberg, the ski instructor, seemed gentle enough.

When I stepped into the skis for the first time, my natural awkwardness did not fail to disappoint.

As Malberg was telling the class the different stances for skiing, I was sliding backward downhill.

I was hobbling to catch up with the class all morning. I was the only male student in a class with nine women. In a way, it was fitting because I was wearing a pair of women’s large snow pants that I bought on clearance.

They were worth the expense because they kept dry through a couple of tumbles and scrapes while Malberg exhorted me to stay clear of the brush. I once grasped onto a trail rope like a lifeline before falling into the snow.

My ego was bruised more than anything else. Everyone else seemed to be catching on, taking to it naturally.

By the end of class, I was hating it, not even listening to what Malberg was saying. He mentioned something about lifting a toe to shift weight and change directions, but whenever I tried that, both of my toes lifted at the same time.

But Malberg assured me that I wasn’t the worst student he ever had. He suggested I stick around and ski on my own.

When I was by myself, I felt more relaxed. The bunny hill had mostly cleared out for lunch.

I learned my morning was not a waste because the pizza lesson was serving me well. This is where you form a pizza wedge with your skis to control your speed.

I felt the magic, the exhilaration of flying down the hill. It was great for clearing my mind. All my usual worries about paying the rent and making deadline disappeared in the rush. I did have to be careful to dodge the fallen snowboarders on the way down, but that only added to the thrill.

I was addicted to returning to the lift for more, wanting another high.

When I returned the next morning for my second class, I noticed a slight panic in Malberg’s eyes, like, “Here comes trouble.”

I was still very bad, even wiping out twice when getting off the lift. I never made it up the mountain for real skiing. But one day at a time.

jhaug@durangoherald.com Jim Haug covers city government for the Herald.