I Just Don't Get It

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great Uncle Gene spent Thanksgiving with us this year.  He drove up the day before, getting here in the early evening after a horrific snow storm dumped about six inches of the white stuff on Sugar Mountain.  We went to bed that night with a temperature of eleven degrees, feeling like -1 because of the wind chill factor. 

By Thanksgiving morning, though, the sun rose over the mountain and provided some warmth through a crystal clear blue sky. After breakfast, and after putting the turkey in the oven, we decided to take a walk up to the ski lodge and get some hot chocolate while we watched the skiers and snowboarders navigating the slopes.  One poor soul caught my eye - a sympathetic one mind you - as she doggedly plodded down the hill merely a few feet at a time before falling forward or squatting backward in a heroic effort to master a workable technique for the two sticks she found attached to her feet.

Some honesty here – I have a hate/hate relationship with snow skiing.  Oh, in my 65 years, I’ve given it many a chance to win me over, but from the very beginning we were doomed.

 

My first foray into the sport came in college when I went to Cattaloochee Ski Resort in Maggie Valley, NC, with several friends.  After purchasing our lift tickets, we were directed to the equipment rental department where we procured our boots, skis and poles.  I think, looking back on it, this is where my disaffection for skiing actually began.  The boots were made from a cumbersome hard leather with clasps on the toe and heel to insert in the ski.  They were certainly not dainty to begin with, but in my size of 8-1/2, they long since passed any semblance of a shoe - they were more like concrete blocks.  When I put them on, I felt like, oh I don't now.....a Clydesdale.

The skis themselves were wooden, nothing like the alloy mixes you find today.  And, they basically measured the same length regardless of your height.  A metal cradle was bolted into each board with insertion points to match the boot clasps.  A couple of straps were attached to the heel of the cradle to thread over the boot and lock it to the ski.  Supposedly, this was to keep you from losing the ski should the boot come out of the cradle. Figuring out how to properly lace them required an engineering degree.

The only pieces of equipment with which I felt any ease were the poles.  They were pretty straight up.

Since I had never skied before, I signed up for a lesson.  One of my friends helped me get my boots set and strapped my skis.  The trick then was figuring out how to get up to the bunny slope where several others gathered around an instructor.  I couldn't walk - the weight on each leg felt like lifting brickbats.  Sliding the skis first one then the other just left me standing in the same place.  Finally, I turned sideways and lifted one ski up the hill and sloshed the other after it, digging the poles in the ground as hard as I could. 

The class began like this -

"I want each of you to sit down," the instructor said, "because you're going to fall a lot today and you need to know how to get up."

All of us curled down to the snow.

"Now, here's how you do it."  He demonstrated pressing the skis sideways against the slope and using the poles to push himself upright.  "Okay, now try it."

The students followed his directions.  One by one they all popped up....except for me.  I pushed hard.  My skis slid out from under me.  I adjusted the angle to the slope and pushed again, making a very unflattering grunting sound.  Nothing happened.  Everybody stood there watching as a flush of embarrassment rose up my neck and blushed my entire face.  I felt like a beached seal flailing away on the shore.  Much to my relief, the instructor finally took pity and came over to help me.

“Whew,” I thought.  “Glad to have that over.”

“All right, let’s try it again,” he directed.

“Nuts!”

We all collapsed again.  This time, it took just a few seconds for everybody to right themselves…..except for me.  I stabbed my poles into the snow and forced the skis as hard as I could into the slope.  Just as I could feel myself starting to stand, they slid out from under me and I fell backwards, knees bent beneath me.  I lay there helpless, and mortified.  

Out of some compassion, and probably a realization that he didn't need to waste any more time on teaching us how to "get up," the instructor came over again to help me.  We spent the remainder of the session learning the basics, how to put your weight over the skis to go forward and how to snow plow to stop.  The instructor finally dismissed us and told us to go over to the practice slope for a while before we attempted the more difficult runs.

The practice slope consisted of a rope on pulleys that moved skiers up a gentle hill for about 50 yards.  I managed to maneuver over to the end of the line, took my place at the bottom and began tromping up to the start.  It looked simple enough - turn your skis up the hill, tuck your poles under your arm, grab the rope and let it pull you up.  The skier ahead of me took his turn.  I got in place, reached out for the rope and -- BAM!-- the next thing I know, my face is squarely planted in the snow between my skis, the heels of my boots popped from their sockets. I'm down. The pulley operator stopped the rope with several skiers dangling onto it. The line behind me began to stack up.  My poles slowly slid away down the hill.

The position I assumed made it almost impossible to move.  When I finally was able to throw myself over on my back, carrying the dangling skis over my head, it must have looked like a helicopter crash.  Some blessed soul came over to assist me.  He lifted me off the ground and moved me out of the way so the pulley could start again.  By then, the line of skiers went all the way to the bottom of the hill at the lodge.  He reconstructed my equipment while I tenuously held onto him.  Once my boots were locked and strapped and I was reunited with my poles, I began the arduous slog back over to the line.

I worked my way up the hill in the queue.  Four skiers ahead took the rope….three skiers ahead of me……two…..one…I tucked my poles under my arms….my turn.  I grabbed the rope and –- BAM! – like a scene from Groundhog Day, my face hit the snow again faster than one can say “DUMB!.”

Who knew?  Along with snow-plowing, it would have been nice to get some instruction on how to use the pulley – like leaning back a little before you clutch the rope!

With my pride in total shambles, my decision at that point to take my skis off, turn them back in and go to the lodge for a day-long hot chocolate binge was one of the easiest I’ve ever made.  Yes, my relationship with snow skiing definitely got off to a rocky start.  May need some counseling….

……..to be continued.