Reading: Edward Eager, The Well-Wishers

Christmas: nothing

Learning: a better skiing stance. Edward Eager's opinion of first-person narrative.

Moving: alpine skiing, four runs over three hours totally about 10 downhill miles, but more actually since I zig and zag so very much.

Viewing: early morning sun over Loveland pass. Ten thousand foot air sparkling with windborne snow in crystal blue sky. The swirl of foam atop a perfect bowl of cocoa. The usual Sunday night line-up. "Antz" last night.

12 December 1999: Keystone

The alarm rang at 6:00 on Sunday morning, which it should try to avoid on a regular basis. I fumbled up to turn it off and got back in bed. "Don't you want to go?" asked RDC. "In a minute," I offered. 6:11, after a light doze, I stood up again. I started Blake's breakfast before getting in the shower. This is contrary to the usual practice, but today everything was contrary. Today we were going skiing.

Blake was exceptionally sweet this morning. Despite hearing the alarm, he must have known it was a weekend, since I woke him up instead of doing my morning routine alone. He whistled and sang to us as we brushed our beaks, made oatmeal, and puttered about. Then he began to sense something was wrong. This wasn't aimless puttering. This was dressing. There was stuff by the door. He fanned his tail and turned his back. If I were a cockatiel, by the end of the day I'd treat RDC the same way.

Soon after 7:00 we were on the road. I wore sunglasses, since it was a wonderfully sunny day and I'd rather wear sunglasses, unscratched, than goggles, better for colder days, over contacts, better on wetter days. The skis were in, not on, the car: more convenient and cleaner, if less hip than on the rack. I wore fleece pants and cotton turtleneck, ski socks and hiking boots. I had drunk a lot of water already and carried a water bottle. RDC had a lot of water and tea.

Magpies flew overhead, my talisman for good fortune in all thing Coloradan. The early sunlight on the peaks was wonderful. Cassidy charged up the foothills, and there was little traffic. The ski season is early yet but the shopping season is reaching its peak. RDC drove, as usual; riding shotgun I looked for animals, also as usual. No elk in the foothills, but after Idaho Springs, where RDC did not pee, he not I spotted a herd of bighorn sheep, perched precariously on the cliffy bank of the interstate as it cut through Arapahoe National Forest. A couple of turns later, in someone's yard nestled into mountains, I spotted a huge herd, maybe 50 head. Bighorn sheep in your own yard. Growing up I saw whitetail deer often enough, in my very own yard, but but bighorn sheep--zounds!

There are those who never see even deer. One summer HEB and SEB visited me and I brought them to a cornfield in Lyme that deer nearly always frequent at sunset. HEB, living in Ashford, was going to enjoy it, but SEB, from Manchester, was nearly off her rocker with anticipation. Slowing already, I glided Fugly onto the shoulder, pointed, and turned off the ignition. SEB threw herself headlong out the car and slammed the door.

She was so dismayed we didn't even laugh at her. Very much. After all, she was the one who'd never before seen deer outside a zoo. Now she'd seen a bunch of deer butts and had learned something for next time.

Anyway. We exited I-70 to go over Loveland Pass, us and the trucker with hazardous cargo that can't go through Eisenhower Tunnel and the other cars with four-wheel-drive, plus the Dodge Neon at the front of the line. Damn Neon. To execute the hairpins curves safely, it slowed to nearly nothing, but it never pulled off to let anyone pass. To me, watching the sun rise into the peaks, valleys still in shadow two hours after sunrise, mist clearing and the vista stretching away, this was fine, but RDC, the tiny-bladdered, by now really needed to pee. The Neon was even slower on the Summit County side, and by the time we reached the parking lot we both had to go.

We scurried to the lodge, peed, and returned to the car to dress. I shucked my turtleneck and watched my skin go whiter and goosefleshy in the instants before I donned a thermal shirt. Back with the turtleneck. Ski pants. I hate ski pants. "Your bib's loose," RDC contributed, pulling a strap. I slapped his hand away. One of my arguments in the ongoing debate about whether these are women's pants we bought for me (his stance) or a cast-off pair of his (mine) is that the rise is inadequate and to keep the seam out of my butt I have to keep the bib loose. I tucked turtlefur neck gator, face mask, and headband into various pockets along with sunscreen, debit card, Blistex, and Colorado Card (a ski pass).

Now came the moment of truth. Ski boots. I hate ski boots. I consider them all the direct descendants of the medieval torture device called "The Boot." Sitting in the passenger seat, door open, feet on the ground, I removed my hiking boots and tossed them into the footwell. Left boot first. I unclasped the four buckles and wrenched the tongue out and away and dipped my pointed toes in. My foot stopped. There was no place for it to go. My heel was up toward the second buckle and my toes barely entered the flat section of the boot. Damn thing. I shoved. It shoved back. I shoved harder. It began to compress like a trash compactor around the bones of my foot. Calvin and his bicycle, Charlie Brown the kite-eating tree, me and my ski boots. No one believes us but it's true.

RDC heard the commotion and came to assist. He knows this whole sport is entirely his own fault and is willing to shoulder what copious abuse I offer in his ongoing hope I will one day enjoy myself. He knows better to hope that in the first hour.

Putting on ski boots should not be a team effort. Furthermore, ski boots should not threaten to snap bones. And especially the snowboarders suiting up in the neighboring Jeep should not crank whatever unpleasant so-called music they're listening to such that two people crouched on the opposite side of the neighboring car cannot hear each other over the lyrics, of which I could make out only a repetitious "Fuck you I won't do what you tell me." I admit that whatever conversation we two were having we didn't really need to hear, though, nor anyone else. It consisted mostly of my whining and complaining and, indeed, crying out of frustration and pain, and of RDC telling me I couldn't whine and complain when we weren't even on the slopes yet.

Compared to getting my feet into them, wearing the boots seemed hardly painful at all. I'm also not fond of tramping in boots the half-mile between car and lift line carrying skis and poles, but I persevered. My boots even assisted here as far as they could: each has a dial at the ankle to adjust its stiffness; I dialed "walk." My friends and I refer to dresses and skirts that button "dial-a-dresses." We joined the lift line, hopped on, and started up. The two snowboarders who shared the quad were having some unfathomable teeny-bopper conversation, and had their own like way of govoreeting (I believe this is the full, 21-chapter edition), and I put my two cents in only toward the top. One was telling the other how to get water from snow with a cup and some plastic and maybe a little help from the sun, the same thing I learned myself in seventh grade (except I learned it in the context of being lost at sea, which is some indication of the geography of our respective native states). "Well," said the other, "now I know that if I get lost on the top of the mountain, except you could just eat the snow anyway." So, just in case they did get lost in an avalanche on this heavily groomed mountain, I told them that eating snow is detrimental, especially high-altitude snow, especially manufactured snow. I'm such a grown-up--telling them this as I put sunscreen on the insides of my ears and under my chin.

First run. Nothing should hurt this much and still be called fun. If standing your feet are 90 degrees to your legs, ski boot force your feet to an acute angle. Plus you're supposed to lean forward with your weight on your toes and the fronts of your skis. How you're supposed to do that without hyperextending your knees, no one has yet adequately explained to me. Our day skiing consisted of RDC telling me not to sag my butt, not to let my tips up, to lean forward, to keep my arms up and not drag my poles. The arms up thing was new [no it wasn't]and I don't drag my poles. Why the hell would I want my arms up? Parallel to the ground, if I were falling, of course, but if I weren't, I see no reason to hold my arms up as if I were. Plus I'd keep my arms straight out, shoulder level, not bent with fists at chest level.

Two things define the insanity of skiing to me.

One, my first day ever, winter of 1993. The hour was unspeakable, the sun not up, when CXJ arrived for the three of us to drive to Okemo. I was not a happy tigger. CXJ bounced around our apartment, protesting, "But lisa, we're going skiing" as if that were more important than sleep.

Two, late fall of 1995, Aspen, in a billiards pub with CLH and several of her friends including Kenny. Every single one of them worked in the service industry and lived in Aspen with a college degree and a season pass (whereas the actual service people live downvalley with neither degree nor pass). Kenny did not get killed in every episode, though you'd have predicted he'd have been dead at least once by then. He participated in the winter fest activities, like the downhill in the snow bike race. On quieter days he was a fishing guide. Someone asked him about his new boots. He laughed self-deprecatingly, and, still grinning, replied, "They hurt, man, but they work." I inquired what this meant. The questioner was the man who sold him a pair of ski boots a size too small, boots he bought deliberately despite their being a size too small, on the theory that the tighter fit would give him better performance.

Both of these men are insane.

I made it down Schoolmarm, the aptly named green run that sees most of my pathetic action. Up again, and RDC wanted to have a snack. We both chugged a sports drink, he because it was blue, I despite its being blue. Then Schoolmarm again. I know that not all snowboarders are rude little fools, but nonetheless when I cringed at someone's behavior or had to dodge them on the slope, the person is almost always on one board, not two. Why must snowboarders pause in the middle of the slope? Why must they rest below dips, right where they're hardest to see, instead of along the verge?

RDC continued to try to fix my face, pushing up the corners of my mouth into a smile. Occasionally I'd grin at something: a snowrat, in a helmet but without poles, facing straight down the slope wasting no time by turning, fearlessly and with center of gravity 18" above the surface; a one-legged man with little skis on his poles, essentially skiing three leggedly. I shouldn't have smiled at that last, because it inspired RDC to say that if he could do it, I could do it.

Another grinnable thing: the day was fine, the sky blue, the sun sunny, and the stiff breeze wafted crystals of snow from the pines into the air around us. Such dry snow leaves almost no mark melting onto and evaporating from glasses; we skied through sparklies. The effect was magical.

As usual, the pain in my feet receded enough that I grinned without external manipulation by the third run, which I think was Silver Spoon, with a bit of blue. I managed the steeper parts okay, and RDC said my form was improving, and yes, by this time I was enjoying myself. As we came down our third run, RDC granted an indulgence and suggested we do just one more long one and stop for the day. This was an excellent idea, but somewhere on the lift he spoke of "one or two" more. I called him on that: one he'd said, and one I'd agreed to. It could be a long one, but my feet were asleep (n.b., the pain was receding because all sensation had left. No feeling means no control, as well. I was skiing from my knees atop wooden stumps (perhaps it was blood loss leading to gangrene that had lost the amputee his left calf).

RDC had suggested lunch, which was a fine idea, and he suggested going to the Great Northern Tavern in ski boots. "Must we?" I asked.
"It's just another trip to the car."
"Yes, but a trip in walkable shoes."

Stomping toward the car, I passed a little black car with a pair of men inside playing their dashboard and steering wheel (having forgotten their bongos, I guess) to Bob Marley. I grinned at them, and they grinned back, entirely unembarrassed. Good. People are too self-conscious about being goofy and having fun.

I nearly cried with relief when I got the boots off. Ski pants and thermal shirt were flung to the back and I peeled down my socks. A ring of embossed flesh, about three inches high, circled my left calf just above my ankle. So there. I usually think the problem is that I have fat calves, because I do have large, fat-streaked calf muscles, but this just above the ankle. I must be deformed all over. I showed RDC, who followed me after another pee, my leg; he was little impressed. He bruises his shins with the fronts of his boots. Again, that's whacked.

I dislike shoes in general and hiking boots, specifically, needing to be laced so tightly, are a particular non-favorite. Nonetheless there are few physical pleasures in life that compare to the security of hiking boots after the clompy instability of ski boots. Setting off to the Great Northern, I strode my usual long confident stride. For about two feet, or at least until we passed the rasta boys still bopping in their car (I wonder if they ever made it to the slope that day). Then weariness overcame me. I trudged.

In the restaurant, I lay down in our booth. I hoped no inspectors might arrive right then to ensure it was purely a dining and not a lodging establishment as well. RDC and I ordered a Great Northern Amber Ale and a cocoa, a chicken pot and a rock shrimp sandwich, respectively. I tried to stay awake.

The cocoa! Easily the best I have ever had ever ever ever in my life. Almost creamy, not just milky, and particularly not watery like most. RDC was just as pleased with the ale. And the rock shrimp was exquisite. I myself wouldn't think of thyme and rosemary as seafood seasonings; the smell of them together is strictly a Thanksgiving aroma. How wrong I was. After I was done, I lay down again as RDC finished his pint. I might have dozed. I think I dozed. Either that or I was in that fantastic half-sleep in which I register stimuli but am unaware to make the usual sense of them. If I could record what I think I hear during such dozes, I'd be a famous surrealist writer. I offered to drive and RDC, sensible fellow, got a coffee for himself instead.

I was asleep before the top of Loveland Pass, in fact soon after Arapahoe Basin, which is pretty high but not on the climb itself. RDC always drives and he always gets a coffee because he knows I will shirk my job of keeping him company and keeping him awake. I stayed awake permanently after Idaho Springs, though.

I might take lessons. I really can't see quitting skiing entirely. RDC wants me to try parabolic skis, which are cut in a gentle hourglass shape. They are the mountain bike to the ten-speed of conventional skis and allegedly turn nearly on their own. Also he wants me to take lessons. What do I want? I would like there to be a ski train and no manufactured snow and to be to flex my toes.