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Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEEEEP.

And they’re off — Canadians Sierra Smith, BKin’25, and Kalle Eriksson rocket out of the start gate at the Milano-Cortina Winter Paralympic Games in March 2026.

“Front of the boot, outside ski, level shoulders,” whispers 21-year-old Eriksson, his mantra as a visually impaired alpine skier. 

Smith, his guide, hears those whispers through her headset and, acting as Eriksson’s eyes, glances over her shoulder: “We’re coming over this turn, into a jump … there are bumps around this gate …  start to get a high line — there’s a shadowy section.”

Clocking 90-odd km/h, the wind is fierce, the light is flat. Five metres behind Smith, all Eriksson can see is the bottom of her legs and her helmet.

“Imagine you’re in a car travelling 100 km an hour and you stick your head out of a window,” describes Eriksson from his home in Kimberley, B.C. “You can’t really breathe … that’s how I know how fast we’re going.” 

Depending on the race — downhill, super-G, giant slalom, slalom and combined slalom— on the run, Eriksson has just over a minute to feel the snow, process Smith’s calls and adjust his line.

And then — it’s over. 

Unable to read the board (Eriksson sees six per cent of what someone with 20/20 vision sees), he waits. Smith delivers the verdict:

Three medals — one silver, two bronze— across five events. Not bad for a Paralympic debut. 

Double Duty

Back at her parents’ home in Ottawa, Smith is finally catching her breath. 

Between full-time training and completing her kinesiology degree at the University of Calgary, the last two years have been, in her words, “intense.”  She’s quick to credit her professors and the faculty’s flexibility that made it possible.

A former member of Canada’s national women’s ski team, Smith’s career was derailed by injury. An ACL tear in 2017, followed by another in 2018, forced her to rethink everything. 

“I’d had a singular focus for so long,” she recalls. “My whole identity, since I was an 11-year-old, had been ski racing.” 

Looking for a reset, she found ԰������’s Kinesiology program and a newly hatched ski team.

“I applied, got in, and joined the Dinos in my first year (2020),” Smith says. “It was the perfect transition.”

Not an easy one, though. 

After a season of studies and racing with the Dinos, Smith became an athlete mentor and later a coach for the alpine team. In fact, it was while coaching the Dinos at Nakiska that an unexpected opportunity came her way.

“The para head coach asked if I would ski in front of a few of their visually impaired skiers who didn’t have guides,” she recalls. “I had only been out of racing for two years and my knees had healed, so I said yes.”

That’s when she met Eriksson.

“And realized pretty quickly that Kalle was fast. Super fast.” 

Fast enough to haul her back into the sport in a completely new way. 

“My body let me do what I loved most,” Smith says. “And I realized it was so much more fun to be me … to be on the course again and not on the side of the hill as a coach.”

That was just four years ago. 

At the time, neither of them knew what they were doing. They talked constantly on chairlifts, experimented with headsets, leaned on advice from veteran para racer Mac Marcoux — and built their own cheat sheet from scratch; one grounded in absolute trust and razor-sharp communication. 

It was also on one of those long lift rides that Smith learned Eriksson’s story. 

At 17, while living in Sweden, he developed a rare case of solar retinopathy — severe retinal damage, commonly known as snow blindness — while helping his father, a national para alpine coach, input numbers on an LCD screen (a timing system). The glare from the screen was so bad, Eriksson chose not to wear sunglasses that day. By day’s end, his vision was blurry, but he thought he’d just overused them in the bright light.

His vision, however, never returned.

Eriksson’s newly acquired driver’s licence was revoked. His dream of becoming a heavy-duty mechanic disappeared almost overnight. Whatever dreams he’d had for his future were shattered.

“That said, I was still a little optimistic my eyesight might come back,” he says. “But I didn’t want to stay in Sweden anymore. So, I came back to Kimberley to finish high school. And I lived in my grandmother’s basement.”

The turning point came the following summer. Working at a local golf course, Eriksson got a call from the para alpine team in Cochrane: Would be consider trying ski racing? 

“My parents talked me into it,” he laughs, explaining as a teen he had played more hockey than he’d skied. “But they were right — I fell in love with the sport. And the purpose it gave me.” 

Learning to Trust at Speed

So how, exactly, do you go from thinking like an individual athlete to performing as a unit — at 100 km/h?

“At first, I was terrified to look behind me,” Smith admits. “Things can go sideways so quickly at those speeds.”

And the responsibility is immense.

“Of course, I feel responsible for Kalle’s safety — but also for his performance and helping him reach his potential. That’s a big shift from just focusing on my own race.”

If Eriksson doesn’t hear a command, hooks a gate, or misses a turn, Smith may stay upright on her skis — but, emotionally, she goes down with him. 

That connection cuts both ways.

Looking at three Paralympic medals, Smith is quick to emphasize the shared achievement. “Kalle can’t ski without me, and I couldn’t compete without him right now, so that’s pretty special,” she says.

Their lives are fully intertwined on and off the course. Guides train on identical schedules — same summer camps in Chile, same gym sessions, same drills, same calories. 

And, sometimes, the same dance floor and rock-climbing wall. 

During Smith’s final year at ԰������, Eriksson moved to Calgary as their partnership deepened. You might have spotted them line dancing at Ranchman’s on a Thursday night or rock climbing near Canmore.

“But, on race day, we are strictly professional,” says Smith. “Well … we try.”

When Setbacks Rewrite the Plan

Both Smith and Eriksson grew up fearless, competitive, and drawn to speed.

Both had their paths disrupted.

What’s remarkable isn’t just their comeback — it’s how those detours aligned. 

There’s something almost poetic about a second act that isn’t planned, but discovered — and shared. 

���’m so happy with what I’ve overcome,” says Eriksson. “Whatever your disability is … do something with it. Treat it as another challenge.” 

He pauses.

“I think it’s easy to feel sorry for yourself; I know I did. But you can do a lot — you just have to try things and figure out what you love.” 

In just four years, that mindset has taken him around the world and onto the Paralympic podium.

“It feels like a lifetime of experiences,” Eriksson says. “There’s no question that this sport helped me find myself … a newer version of myself.” 

For Smith, the return to skiing came in an unexpected form — but it’s no less meaningful.

“I may not be racing for myself anymore, but I got a second chance to do what I love. And I’m still growing every day,” she says.

Together, they’ve reimagined what partnership looks like in sport — turning loss into precision, trust into speed and setbacks into something stronger.

And they’re not done yet.

Smith is applying to graduate schools in physiotherapy. Eriksson is back working at the golf course, with his sights set on the next Paralympics: “In four years, I’ll be back.”

And when he is, it will come down to the same thing that got them here.

At 100 kilometres an hour, trust isn’t optional. It’s everything.

At that speed, trust becomes its own kind of vision.