When the slope hit back
First of all, a man with my build might want to avoid certain sports.
Oh, the things I do to get weed money.
My roommate Steve decided, on a bet with his friend Grant, to take up snowboarding. The sport got a hold of Steve, and he soon began longing for the action and as many trips as possible. The only problem was that Steve was without transportation.
His lack of a car provided me an extracurricular financial opportunity. He wanted to go so badly one Saturday that he rented my skis and paid for gas for a ride up. My eyes saw dollar signs and good green flash before them.
“Alright, all sounds good, but I need $30 extra dollars,” I said with a grin, and he knew what I wanted it for. Let’s face it, he would benefit too.
For $30, you could buy 1/8 of an ounce of what you hoped was good green. In those days, the choices were basically green or brown. There were no fancy names for smoke in my corner of the world. If it got a name, it was always with a negative connotation.
Don’t get me started on “Diesel Dope.”
We left early Saturday morning in the bitter cold and headed toward bitter colder. Steve, of course, had gotten all the gear he needed after he started to like the downhill slide. He had his own snowboard, ski pants, ski coat, ski gloves, and special boots. He would have been in style at any large ski resort out west.
As you can imagine, I had none of that.
I had an old pair of boots, two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, three shirts, and a Carhartt coat. I had gloves too, good gloves; they became the only sensible thing I carried up the mountain.
The drive was okay; we sang along with classic rock songs and had no issues with the roads. With all those clothes and the heater in the truck, I actually had to crack a window to get cooled off. A low, double-digit day, and there I was opening the window.
We parked about 200 yards away from the lodge and headed toward rentals and lift tickets. Steve purchased the lift tickets and rented my skis and boots. I was glad to see the ski boots, although I realized they weren’t made for walking as soon as I stood up.
I had decided on skis over a snowboard. I figured that if my legs weren’t strapped to the same board, they could flail about when I fell. With snowboards, it becomes more of an instant slam onto your face. See what I did there? I used my brain for the first and last time on this trip.
After a few trials and errors, I was able to snap those uncomfortable boots down on those two slick sticks. The strange slide to the lift chair wasn’t so bad, and I got to thinking this might be fun. I was able to sit down on the lift without much trouble and enjoyed a scenic view with light snow the entire ride.
I saw the lift coming to its conclusion at the top of the mountain and tried to study how people exited. There was an immediate downhill slope upon standing up that led you right to where you needed to be. Okay, I can do that. How hard is it to stand up?
The first real lesson of the day came as I stood up. My skis both decided they were going down that hill with or without me. The skis won the fight, and I slid down the hill on my back, losing one ski in the process. I don’t blame the ski. If I had someone my size standing on my back, I’d run too.
I slid down the hill on my back, marking the first time I became a public spectacle. Thankfully, someone retrieved my ski and brought it over to me. My hooded sweatshirt and Carhartt jacket seemed to draw eyes, and I am sure a few chuckles. I had no business on their slopes. They were right at the time, but I later proved them wrong.
My friends are just as bad as I am at putting each other in harm’s way. I requested the bunny slope; he told me I had to go intermediate to really learn. He said the bunny slope would wear me out because it was too long. With great trepidation, I agreed.
Staring down what appeared to be a snow-covered cliff, I started rethinking the whole ordeal. I watched others point both skis together to slow down; I thought I could do this. Then, watching others go down, some hard, my mind started leaning toward a long walk down to the car.
In the end, those uncomfortable boots made my decision for me. There was no way I was walking all that way in those damn boots. I decided I would slide down on my back if need be.
Of course, the trip down was Hell in the cold. I realized why people spent money on proper gear. Two pairs of pants was not a very good idea. It worked as a kid, with bread bags strapped to my feet and an old wool hat; I stayed relatively warm. We always had a fire to warm up to, and if Mom was feeling it, a thermos of hot chocolate.
There were no such comforts at the bottom of the slope where I finally landed. I am sure the lodge had a fire pit and $5 hot chocolate, but I was closer to the car than the lodge.
My pants were frozen to the point of cracking with each step. I do not know how anyone walks in high heels, but I imagine the ski boots are much worse. I “duck walked” my way to the car; I was in dire need of heat.
I had fallen no less than twenty times on that first trip: face first a couple times. I learned the hard way that all the hype about fresh powder must have meant some other kind of powder. This crap was ice hard. I was hurting everywhere.
I knew that if I could just reach the car, I could get warm and take a nap. I would return the skis later; I was really crashed-out at the time. I raced my shaking legs about 100 yards to the car. By sheer dumb luck, I avoided the ground.
My hand was numb as I reached into my frozen pocket to retrieve the keys. Of course I dropped them. It sounded like cracking glass as the ice broke on my pants.
Yes, this would be my last ski trip.
After about an hour of heat and a smoked bowl, my mind started to change. Steve had not seen me since we parted ways at the lift. I was sure he was on his second or third trip when I disappeared. I had the advantage of not being picked on by my friend.
With good green encouragement, my aversion to the sport started to subside. With the false promise of a good buzz, I decided to try it again. Between pain and pride, pride won.
The second trip was not so dramatic. I was able to slide a little farther after each fall. It still hurt like Hell, but it was easier.
Yes, I went on the intermediate slope again; go big or go home. This time, I was able to get close to the lodge. I waddled and shook my way in and was never so relieved as I was when those boots came off. After resting near the fire, I turned everything in and waited for Steve.
I was still getting lots of strange looks. I was big enough to avoid comments, but the looks were enough to aggravate me. I wondered who these people thought they were. Although I was ready to express myself, I figured the best thing to do was just shake my head.
Steve finally arrived, and it was time to start our journey home. Over time, I got much better with the strapped-on sticks, and we spent the next couple of winters checking out all of the nearby slopes. I had finally bought the right clothing and a pair of sticks of my own. I finally fit in with the stuck-up lodge dwellers. I still needed to express myself to point out how stupid their many looks of disdain were.
Before I got my own gear, I painted ‘Farm Use’ in big red letters on the back of my Carhartt coat. That’ll learn them.
