Ski With Me

“Before we start skiing, I’ve reserved a ski instructor for the three of you,” Hubs said in his father-knows-best tone. He had just come back from the ticket office with the news.

The girls immediately began complaining.

“Aww, Dad!”

“We just got here.”

“No,” I agreed, picturing the instructor in my mind. He would be blonde, tanned and toothy, with a name like Scamp. “We could really use some help. I, in particular, need some serious one-on-one time.”

“Exactly,” Hubs agreed. “And anyway, it’s a done deal. The instructor’s coming over now to meet us.”

“What’s his name?” I asked, trying to suppress a wolvish leer.

“Maggie.”

At that moment, a weather-beaten woman in her sixties approached us, squinting through coke-bottle glasses. “Hi, everyone! I’m here for the lesson!”

I eyed her warily. “Hubs, actually I think the girls need more work than I do,” I coughed. “Maybe I should just ski with you. I mean, I’d hate to take up the girls’ lesson time.”

“How long have you been skiing, dear?” Maggie asked, touching my arm.

“Thirteen years,” I said quickly.

“She skiied for two days in North Carolina thirteen years ago,” Hubs clarified.

“Oh dear,” Maggie said. “I’d really like to work with you, hon. I’m afraid you won’t be able to get down the mountain.”

I started to object, but was struck by a vision of myself cartwheeling down the slopes, my left ski striking the head of a blonde, tanned and toothy snowboarder named Scamp as he frantically tried to avoid me. He would be soooooooo pissed.

“Okay,” I glowered. “I’ll give it an hour.”

Triumphantly, Maggie turned to the girls. “And how long have you been skiing, little ones?” she asked.

“Uh, I skiied the bunny slope last month in Indiana,” 15 replied.

“I skiied a day in California three years ago,” 12 said quietly.

“Hoo boy,” Maggie sighed. “Okay, kids,” she said, “Gather round. We’re going to start at the very beeeeeginnnnninnnng.” I stared. Maggie’s voice had suddenly taken on the distinct tone of one addressing a group of five-year-olds. A group of five-year-olds who spoke English as a second language.

Maggie ushered us to the bottom of the bunny slope, where she had us stand in a semi circle around her. “Imagine a grape,” she intoned, looking each of us in the eye. “It’s a nice fruit. Do you all like grapes?”

“Yes,” 15 and I muttered. Characteristically, 12’s attention was elsewhere.

“Wellllllll,” Maggie continued, looking at me. “What’s your favorite color grape?”

“Uh. Purple,” I said, irritatedly.

“And yours?” she asked 15.

“Purple.”

“And yours?” she said to 12. 12 just looked at her.

“Huh?”

“What’s. Your. Favorite. Color?” Maggie said slowly.

“Blue?”

Maggie snorted. “A blue grape? Well, okay, to each her own, I guess, I mean, I’ve never heard of a blue grape, but…”

“I didn’t know you were talking about grapes!” 12 said quickly, but Maggie wasn’t listening.

“Girls, imagine you are standing with a grape in the arch of your foot,” she said. “That is how you can make sure your weight is evenly distributed while you are skiing.”

The rest of the lesson proceeded in the same tedious manner. We were taught to make a pizza slice with our skis until we got the hang of skiing. Or a piece of pie! Whichever we preferred! We were taught to duck walk in our skiis uphill. And then we were made to duck walk up the hill over and over again and ski back down for Maggie’s sadistic pleasure. And people, I am here to tell you that duckwalking in skis up a snowy hill is torturous. Every muscle in my body burned as I oh-so-slowly worked my way back up to the starting point.

“You…. bitch. You…. bitch.” I gasped with each step after Maggie commanded me to climb the hill for the 15th time in order to prove to her yet again that I could make a right turn. I encouraged 15 to use the same mantra, but she looked at me like I was a total nut.

Finally, Maggie decided she had imparted enough of her food-based ski wisdom on me.

“Very good, Nadine,” she said solemnly after I had snaked my way back down the bunny hill. “I think you’re ready for a beginner run.”

Nadine.

“Uh. My name’s not Nadine.”

Maggie laughed and pretended like she hadn’t heard me.

“The girls are going to need another hour, I think.”

I looked at 12, struggling vainly to pull herself up from a contorted position on the ground. I thought of 15, who had just informed me that another ski instructor had tried to revoke her lift pass for her “out-of-control antics.”

“I think you’re right, um, Ethel,” I said. “I’ll let my husband work out the details with you.”

So that was the low point of our ski week. Yet somehow, we managed to find a little gold dust in the river sludge Maggie had to offer. Because after our lesson and a few bunny slope runs on our own, the girls and I could ski. Pretty damn well. By day three, we were making intermediate runs, something I would’ve thought was impossible the day we arrived.

And the slopes. Oh god. Purgatory’s runs are amazing. The beginner “green” runs were pretty much empty, allowing the girls and I to fine-tune our budding skiing skills without worrying about other beginners crashing into us. And they were still challenging enough for Hubs to enjoy greens as well.

I am raving about Purgatory (the name of the resort was recently changed to erm, Durango Mountain Resort, but who the hell would be impressed if I said, ‘Yeah, I just got back from Durango Mountain?‘), and I would be raving even if I didn’t get four free lift tickets for promising to blog about them (Heh heh. Folks, you take what you can get).

Seriously. Purgatory ended up being a good place for an adult or older kids and teens to learn to ski and a great place for fairly experienced skiiers. And it’s right up the road from Durango, one of the coolest towns evah. But more about that tomorrow…