Most people who snowboard begin by the age of six. Maybe seven. But 70?

I had planned a ski trip to Timberline Lodge at Mount Hood, and resolved to try snowboarding instead. It should be simple, I reasoned. You only have to deal with one ski instead of two.

My first warning was the long online release form I had to sign from Timberline’s rental shop. Would I want to rent a helmet while snowboarding? Skiers don’t usually wear helmets.

My second warning came from a friend whose 25-year-old son had scoffed at those who wore wrist braces while snowboarding. He had come home with a broken wrist.

My third warning came from Nick, a physical therapist. My wife Janell and I rented an AirBnB room in his Government Camp chalet on a Friday night to avoid the weekend traffic from Portland.

“I admire your spirit,” Nick told me, “But I will never snowboard. I’ve seen too many broken tailbones — and wrists, wrists, wrists. Do you skateboard?”

“A little,” I said.

“Surf?”

“Badly.”

“Fall down?”

I nod.

“Because that’s what you’ll be doing. A lot.”

“I think I might try anyway.”

Nick asked, “Have you lived a full life?”

The front door opened and Nick’s neighbor Phil arrived for a glass of evening wine. When he heard my plan he suggested that I get a snowboarding lesson.

“A lesson?” I asked. “It’s supposed to be easy.”

“It’s easy if you’re seven years old and can flop down the slope like a rag doll. Adults hurt when they fall.”

Phil explained that snowboarders, unlike skiers, turn with their back foot, pivoting the board from behind. “But most of your weight is still on the front foot — and that’s the problem. That foot has to tilt the board so the front edge is always up. If the front digs in, even for a second, BAM! Down you go. It’s too sudden to react. It’s just BAM.”

Nick agreed. “Many of my snowboarding patients have jaw injuries from sudden face plants. Get a lesson.”

“But you’ve just given me a lesson!” I objected.

“If you believe that, take this advice from my first instructor. He told me, ‘I know you can go fast. That’s easy. Show me first that you can go slow.’ He made me do semicircles down the bunny slope.”

“I’ll try that.”

They looked at me sadly. Nick said, “If you can ski, it’s still more fun to ski.”

Phil said, “The worst part about snowboarding is always bending over to take off the bindings. Unlike skis, there is no safety release. If you’re cartwheeling downhill, you do not want only one foot attached to the board, helicoptering your leg bones to splinters. So the only way to go level or uphill is to bend down, unbuckle one foot, and push along with the other.”

“And when you fall,” Nick added, “you can’t get up by sitting up. You have to roll on your belly, do a pushup, and sit back onto your feet. Do you know how tiring that gets?”

In the morning, as Janell and I were leaving for the short drive to Timberline Lodge, Nick asked, “Did you listen to my advice last night?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think I’ll just ski.”

And here’s the amazing thing: Disappointment flashed in his eyes. He had wanted to believe that a 70-year-old outdoor writer would scoff at his logic and dare to snowboard.

Honestly, the modern downhill skis I rented at Timberline that day were about the same length and width as a snowboard — and probably as easy to turn. The skiers I saw seemed to be having just as much fun as the snowboarders, although they generally avoided the scary areas with jumps and rails. A sign at the entrance to one such snowboarding zone announced, “This park has S & M features.”

Really? Sado-masochistic features?

I later learned that S & M stands for small and medium.

That night Janell and I splurged on a room at Timberline Lodge, something we could never have afforded when I was of snowboarding age. Out the back window of the lodge, a ghostly blue Mount Hood was wrapped in whipped cream.

Floodlights out the front windows lit flocked trees, shadowy slopes and night skiers. Snowboarders were still riding the lifts at 9 pm, carving curves in the cream. I envied them, zooming down the slopes in the night.

But then one of the snowboarders stopped. Perhaps he was ready to head home. Perhaps he had fallen down a lot that day. Wearily, he leaned down to unbuckle his feet. Then he looked up at the warm light in the window of the snow-draped lodge. And I imagined at that moment that he envied me.

William L. Sullivan is the author of 24 books, including The Ship in the Ice and the updated 100 Hikes series for Oregon. Learn more at OregonHiking.com.