So I’m in Breckenridge. The family’s skiing. I’m not, and not only because I value my knees. The last time I ever skied was some very steep run at Whistler. Complete white-out. I took a wrong turn and ended up on a mogul field that was WAY too advanced for me. Really, it was like this:
Clipped the side of a mogul–it was just so icy and I couldn’t see a darned thing–and did this somersault. Landed flat on my back. About five seconds later, the family skis up and the hubby makes the pithy observation: “Wow, that looks like that hurt.”
Uh. Yeah. REALLY yeah.
It’s not that I’m a wuss. For the record, I didn’t start skiing until I was in my thirties. My very first lesson was at Sugarloaf in Maine; the hubby and I were on a hiking trip, and the weather turned very cold and snowy. It also happened to be the beginning of hunting season, too. Even the local dogs wore orange. We did, too: yards and yards of the stuff. I sang a lot, too. I’m amazed no hunter shot me on general principle.
Anyway, I think the hubby was either tired of my singing or genuinely wanted to share something he enjoyed–or both–so he suggested that I try skiing. So I did it primarily to please him. As it turned out, I had a very nice instructor. Great snow, too. I was a complete klutz, though, and only kept at it because the hubby decided to take me in hand. He’s really a very patient guy; I don’t think anyone else would have put up with me. Once, I had this complete freak-out on Killington. Now I’ve hiked Killington; I remember that it was snowing when we got to the top, but the lodge up there was open and we thawed out with some nice soup and spectacular views. But hiking and skiing are, duh, different things. The hubby decided to take me on this VERY STEEP blue. Mind you, I think this was my third time on skis? Anyway, he got down; I froze on mid-slope. I finally made it down, but before I did, I had SUCH a tantrum: the throwing poles and skis kind, which is stupid when you’re on a slope. (For the record, I’m much better now.) We all have our moments.
We went skiing every winter for about fifteen years. Took the kids; started them out young, so they’re fearless. (On the other hand, one daughter was so anxious about it she used to chew her glove all the way down. Oh, and one kid fell off a lift. That was a heart-stopper. Note to self: tie child to seat.) I think the best ski day I ever had was over a decade ago: a Wednesday afternoon in Park City, to be exact. Hit those moguls, skied in control. Completely channeled Picabo Street–and speaking of her, who knew that she played the $10,000 Pyramid in 2003? Shatner should’ve had her for a partner.
My favorite place was Big Mountain, though. What a great resort. Nice people. Good snow. Lots of great terrain and some lovely bowls on the opposite side of the mountain. Riding up the lift and seeing all the snow ghosts was breathtaking. (Again, not my video but, yeah, it’s really like this.)
I think it snowed there a couple times, so the powder was fabulous. As it was in Fernie, too: we went there when the resort had just opened, so it was very bare bones and not crowded at all. (This is not me, but the powder was EXACTLY like this and the skiing really was THAT good.)
So why give all this great stuff up? I know that falling and flipping and all that is part of the skiing learning curve. I get that. I think that if I were a tad younger, I might keep going. But I do have a very gimpy left knee–courtesy of a nasty patch of ice in Tahoe–and while I could wear a brace, I don’t LOVE skiing enough to keep going. Mainly, I fear hurting myself just enough that I can’t do all the other outdoorsy things I really, really enjoy.
So I hung up my skis. Now I send off the family–and I work. It’s okay. The youngest feels guilty, but she shouldn’t. I could snowshoe and I might–but the copy-edits for ASHES are in and I really want to get cracking on them. (My CE is FABULOUS. Whoever you are out there . . . thank you, thank you!) Right now, I’m a quarter through the manuscript. If I finish in time, maybe I’ll snowshoe–or take a mine tour. Breckenridge used to be this old gold mining town and there are a couple defunct places open to tour. Might be fun; I love that kind of stuff.
New Year’s will be right here, in Breckenridge. Already have the Champagne chilling and I figure finger foods, maybe a marathon game of Monopoly or Scrabble–whatever we can dig up.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, here’s a friend’s tree that makes me wish I celebrated Christmas. The tree’s completely Trek-themed and while I have some of those ornaments (yes, I collected them for a time), I don’t have them ALL.
For everyone out there: a safe and Happy New Year. Me, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that good things happen in 2011. Oh, and no one out there break a leg. I’m serious.
