As snow landed gently on the ridiculously impressive Rockies in the background, a guy called Mark told us how easy it was all going to be: by the end of the first day, we would be riding and turning and generally making our way down large mountains with great panache. He sounded entirely convincing - but, then, it's a long time since Mark was a beginner. Lesson Number One: they'll tell you it's easy - they lie.
Our first morning on the hill - it is dreadfully uncool to call them mountains - was testament to this. Looking very much the part in borrowed baggy boarder wear, I joined the little group assigned to a diminutive and kindly-looking Australian instructor. It didn't take long for her to disavow us of first impressions.
You would think that a native of a country renowned more for skin cancer than frost bite would have a little sympathy for those less than familiar with the intricacies of snowboarding. You'd be wrong.
We began by strapping one foot to the board so tightly that, as my foot and lower leg began to numb, my eyes began in turn to bulge with excess blood. Through slightly blurred vision, I then attempted to stand up. Success and, for a second, I stupidly began to believe those 'it's easy' claims.
There then followed an extremely tiring but hardly taxing period of walking stupidly around with a snowboard attached to one leg before we reached the bunny hill.
There, the humiliation began in earnest. We started with side-slipping: this involves manoeuvring oneself, on an ice-laden 1-in-2 incline, from a seated position to fully balanced vertical on the pencil-thin edge of the board. Move a millimetre and you fall. I did. Repeatedly.
The next morning we arrived at Lake Louise, where the turquoise of the glacier-fed lake was just beginning to break from its frozen intransigence. It was undoubtedly breathtaking - but I had more pressing things on my mind than scenery. Owing to my complete lack of snowboarding proficiency, I had been singled out along with a few other unfortunates for some personal attention. It was a bit like being the last person to be picked for playground games of football.
Marc, our new instructor, had that ridiculous enthusiasm only found in North American males. 'This is the T-bar, guys. You may have a little difficulty at first, but, hey, you'll get used to it and then you'll be awesome,' he claimed unconvincingly.
The T-bar looked innocuous enough, but it quickly transpired that it was in fact a comedy-torture device designed to drag novice snowboarders, slap-stick style, upside-down, up a hill while simultaneously lowering all males' future chances of fathering children. Hurt and humiliation at the same time. Boy this was fun.
When, somewhat bruised, I eventually reached the top, something strange happened. I could stand up. Without falling. Then I could side-slip. Not elegantly, but backwards and forwards. It may not sound like much, but to me it was a miracle. Shortly after, the next snowboarding lesson arrived: the minute you can stand up, the real pain begins.
Arrogantly buffered by an over-inflated pride in my modest achievements, I allowed myself to be hoodwinked into believing that now I should learn to turn. This involves shifting one's weight from the pencil-thin toe edge on to the pencil-thin heel edge, or vice-versa. While this sounds simple enough, successful completion in reality requires the agility of an under-fed Romanian acrobat coupled with the calf strength of an Eastern bloc weightlifter.
The next few days are spent in a similar state of incompetence. But as we left Lake Louise and headed for Jasper, travelling along what is reputedly the world's most beautiful road, the realisation gradually dawned. Tomorrow was our last day. I had left Britain with one determination - by the end of the holiday I had to be able to get down a mountain.
Len, our new instructor, looked as if he was wanted in 18 states. 'All right, it's time you guys learned to ride. Let's go,' he said pointing to the ski-lift. We were terrified. At the top, we were petrified. 'Let's ride,' said Len, before disappearing . And then we were all alone. The only way down was on a board.
With the strains of Carmina Burana blasting in my head, I took off. Within a hundred yards, terminal velocity was approaching - I threw myself on to the succour of snow. It wasn't exactly merciful: bruised knees, a grazed nose and mild concussion.
'Hey dude,' said Rico, Len's Hispanic chum. 'Awesome. To fall like that, you gotta be enjoying it.' And, as I reached the bottom of my first hill, I had to grudgingly admit that I was.
The practicals
Canadian Airlines (0345 616767) flies to Calgary nine times a week from Heathrow. Prices start from £641. Gerard Seenan stayed with Fairmont Hotels and Resorts in Banff, Jasper and Lake Louise (reservations via Utell on 0800 515070.
