Skiing and I used to be the best of chums, but up until a few days ago, I hadn’t skied in about 11 years, give or take a year. Back in my skiing days, I was single and living in Tacoma, Washington, while stationed at nearby Fort Lewis. A bunch of us were twenty-something Army JAGs with more time than money, especially when you take into account our gargantuan student loans. We would drive to the low-key yet amazing Crystal Resort in less than an hour and a half. Then we’d ski with the locals to our hearts’ content in the shadow of majestic Mount Rainier and head on back home. Not bad for a Saturday in the Pacific Northwest. Plus we’d still be back in time to drink some great microbrews.
Well, that was a looooong time ago. Fast forward 11 years with a husband, a kid, and obligations, and I was finally buckling up some ski boots at the Homestead and clomping around like a storm trooper on the warpath. Since it was the day after President’s Day, the place was literally deserted. Yes, I was the only person skiing on the entire mountain which was great for privacy from potential humiliation. However, I couldn’t quite remember how to do the whole getting-on-the-ski-lift-thing, and there was no one to not-so-subtly copy. The nice guy at the booth coached me on, and lo and behold I was up in the air without a scratch. Whoosh! Relief washed over me, but the next moment I had a painful realization. Now I was going to have to figure out how the heck to get off this dang contraption — ideally without needing a stretcher afterwards, of course.
Another nice guy at the booth at the top of the lift sensed my panic and coached me off, God bless him. Phew! The worst was over. I already knew how to ski, right? As I set off gingerly, I noticed that the snow was a bit icy. No problem for a seasoned skier like me, I rationalized, even with my brief, ahem, hiatus. I’d be fine. I managed to meander along for a while (which in reality was probably 10 feet) when I found myself at the top of a very steep precipice. Then I did the absolute worst thing — panic and stop in my tracks, quaking in my storm trooper boots.
Since I couldn’t really ski since I had no speed and no ability (bad combo), I was forced to concede defeat. Facing my skis towards the tree line, I slid one ski down a few inches and then the next, keeping them parallel. (I don’t recommend this technique. Anthills are built faster.) As I worked my way down, the ski patrol guy took pity and whizzed on up to me with a flourish. Too desperate to call him a showoff, I asked, “Where’s the bunny hill?” He pointed it out way down below, nodded, and said, “That sounds like a good idea.” I couldn’t help wondering why I had paid for this torture when I could easily have had a massage instead. Why had I ever liked this insane sport in the first place? Had I ever really liked it?
Eventually I made my way to the bunny hill, pride in tow. By then it was crawling with preschoolers taking lessons. After riding the J-bar and coasting down about 10 times, I was getting bored. It was time to give it another go up on Mount Everest — also known as the beginner green trail. Heck, I decided, it couldn’t go any worse than it did before, right?
When I got up there, I forced myself to take off and not hesitate. (He who hesitates is stuck.) Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Much to my amazement I was actually really and truly skiing, not just hobbling along trying not to maim myself. As I approached the Big Hill, I made myself just keep going, weaving my way down. All of a sudden, it was a BLAST again, downright exhilarating! It was like being a completely different person on a completely different mountain. Cowabunga! Since there still were no lines whatsoever, I rode up, whizzed down feeling like the ski patrol guy, and was back on the lift in five minutes flat. Like a toddler with his favorite show, I just kept doing it over and over again until time was up. POOF!
So Skiing and I are back to enjoying each other’s company again. This time I’m not going to lose touch, especially not for 11 years. Bye-bye, bunny hill, and make way for that chairlift!
LibbY