This First Person column is the experience of Michael Lecchino, who lives in Montreal. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
At 6:40 a.m., my alarm buzzes. I’m cocooned in flannel sheets at my family’s cottage in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. Outside, it’s still dark and -20 C.
I start my ritual the same way every time: merino base layer, socks, jeans — yes, jeans — belt, chapstick in pocket. Then a three-minute micro workout to wake my body. Breakfast follows. Lunch gets packed. The bag gets loaded. Only then do I layer up — snow pants, jacket, boots — like I’m going into battle. And in a way, I am.
I’m not a competitive racer or an Olympic medallist. I’m a snowboard instructor. During the week, I work and study in Montreal. On winter weekends, I trade the city for the Mont-Orford ski resort, guiding wobbly first-timers across snow.
My introduction to the mountain came in preparation for a class ski trip in elementary school — the kind you wait for all year. My mother insisted I take lessons beforehand — her version of a safety net. I ended up loving skiing.
A few years later, watching snowboarders fly down a halfpipe during the 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games flipped a switch. I eagerly asked for a snowboarding lesson. One turned into two. Then I started showing up on my own, week after week, until the mountain became a habit, and eventually something more: a desire to teach.
I loved the sport, but I also loved what great instructors made possible. A good teacher is able to make the mountain feel less daunting and turn it into a memorable experience. That’s what I wanted to pass on.
Mont-Orford seen from the base of the mountain in the early morning. (Submitted by Michael Lecchino)
The mountain, at first, can be intimidating. It’s not just snow and slope. It’s a language — rental lines, lift etiquette, snow conditions, gear jargon. The chairlift alone can feel like a foreign country. I remember thinking: I want to help people feel at home here.
So I trained for my Canadian Association of Snowboard Instructors (CASI) Level 1 certification — an entry-level qualification that allows instructors to teach beginner snowboarders — and began teaching at Mont-Orford in December 2015.
One of my first students was a boy visiting from the U.S. for the holidays. I was nervous, with my heart pounding under my layers, but I remembered my instructor’s patience when I was a student. Over four days, I watched this young teenager go from sliding like a deer on ice to carving graceful S-turns.
The job is part teaching, part coaching, part cheerleading. My classroom is the magic carpet, a gentle uphill conveyor belt for beginners, bordered by clumps of kids on tiny skis, some clipped into harnesses, and hopeful adults trying not to fall.
I start every lesson the same way: I explain the board, then teach my students how to strap in, skate, stop, move side to side and descend safely. We laugh. We sweat. Sometimes, we even dance. And we celebrate the small victories along the way.
One of Lecchino’s snowboarding students descends the slope for the first time at Mont-Orford, Que., on Jan. 12, 2025. (Submitted by Michael Lecchino)
There’s something magical about those first successful turns. The shriek of joy when a student realizes, “I’m actually doing it!” That moment beats any summit view.
But it’s not all joyful carving. I’ve weathered freezing rain that soaked through my gloves, winds that stung my face like needles, and the hard moments when fear got the better of someone just starting out.
I’ve had a surgeon whisper, “My wrists are my livelihood,” as we began a lesson. I made sure he didn’t fall once.
What keeps me going isn’t just the sport. It’s the ritual. First tracks in the early morning, when the snow is untouched and the world feels silent. The lunches in the staff room with my sister, who also teaches on the mountain, swapping stories over microwaved home-cooked meals. The camaraderie among instructors — retirees chasing their 500th descent of the season, teenagers clocking in for their first job, me somewhere in the middle.
From a trail near the summit of Mont-Orford, the view opens toward Owl’s Head, with Jay Peak visible farther in the distance. (Submitted by Michael Lecchino)
Sometimes, in the lull between lessons, I squeeze in a run for myself. A chairlift ride to the summit, a pause to look out over the Townships, then a few turns down the mountain. The trees are frosted like pastries, the lakes below frozen in time. It’s in those moments that I think about how lucky I am to have a job where progress is visible and you see it click in real time.
When I’m teaching, I’m watching someone earn their way upward, turn by turn, from the magic carpet to the chairlift to the first real descent. That kind of progress is its own reward, and that’s what keeps me coming back every weekend.
I haven’t made it out west yet. I dream of Banff, Whistler, Revelstoke. But for now, I’m here — on the magic carpet, in my instructor uniform, teaching someone how to stand sideways on a mountain. And that’s more than enough.
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Here’s more info on how to pitch to us.