Terror on the Slopes

The high seas are nothing compared to life on the treacherous slopes of Snoqualmie Summit. I know - I'm a maritime lawyer, and I've done both. -obligatory preliminary comment by my alter ego

Yesterday, I was preempted from watching my beloved figure skating by a rehearsal and a line-memorizing 'party' at Nathan's eclectically-decorated house, which was fine as I watched the skating on youtube later. I don't think I've got a handle on Mrs. Linde. It's frustrating. As you may have divined from Chareth, I did indeed have my first skiing lesson today. But it wasn't terror-filled or treacherous. I got up at 5 this morning - because I set my alarm wrong - made my way to Seattle University, and met the people I will be carpooling for the next six weeks (five, actually - I'll have to miss the week of the Play). There's Sandy, who drove today, a responsible-yet-daredevil Asian (Chinese) girl, Bernadette, a less-responsible and certainly less-daredevil Asian (Filipino) girl, and Brian, a white snowboarder, the strong-and-silent type. (He answers the phone with "heh-ehh." Not like the laugh, but a kind of grunt). (By the way, "Asian" means "Asian-American" here; they didn't have accents or anything, but I figure fully 50 percent of my readership might be interested).

Sandy is very capable, but gives me faint whiffs of my mother. "Make sure you guys go to the bathroom before we leave," she instructed. "Girl, you need to go home and study," was her response to Bernadette's rusty Italian. She's certainly not shy of professing judgment. Nonetheless, she is friendly, and is providing me with transportation.

I hadn't skied since I was ten, when I took lessons at Summit West. In my mind, Pacific Crest and the other lifts I used to use had been reduced by my memory to gentle beginner-level slopes. These Husky Winter Sports lessons are at Summit Central, but I got a glimpse of West as we drove past it on our way out, and they did not look gentle, they looked long and steep.

We stayed on the easiest green-circle run today (green circle = beginner, blue square = intermediate, black diamond = advanced, double black diamond = obvious), and parts of it felt quite steep to me. I did well, if I say so myself, which I believe I just did. But as I looked up at "Parachute," the ominously-named black diamond run, I marvelled at the way my ten-year-old self had actually traversed down those very same slopes. (I remember saying to my mom, "We went from West to Central in a trail among the trees and then went down Parachute! PARACHUTE!" "That's nice, love," she replied, or something equally nonplussed). I will not be doing any parachuting soon. My stomach clenches at the thought.

I had chosen the "I have skied a few times and know how to get off a chair lift" level on the online form, but Bernadette, who had also skied before (2 years ago), chose the "I am an absolute beginner" one, and I decided to stick with a familiar face. Better to be safe than sorry, after all. We started out on the rope-tow and did one run on the chairlift. It turned out that Bernadette was having difficulty turning and fell into me twice, the second time knocking one of my skis off. That was scary. Falling on your ass in skis on an incline is an awkward position. Afterwards I glanced over my shoulder nervously, trying to keep my distance.

The lesson ended at one, and Bernadette decided she was uncomfortable skiing without the instructor. I decided to go it alone, because I'd paid $40 for my lift ticket, and I was not about to get shortchanged. The scariest part of it all, for me, is the chairlift. Riding up in the chairlift alone was freaky. Never mind the little kids in their mini-skis who swing blithely on the chairs that are suspended, guard-rail-less, in the middle of the air, from a hook onto a little cord, far above the packed snow. 18-year-old quasi-adult or not, I do not like heights, and I am not fond of chair lifts. I mean, you are sitting in a completely non-enclosed chair - like a dining room chair to the untrained eye - in the middle of the air! And every 20 seconds it stops and just HANGS there, nothing pushing you forwards, because someone is having difficulty getting on! My strategy was to close my eyes, pretend the gentle rocking motion was that of a waterbed, and try not to let thoughts of death, or "Why the hell did I CHOOSE to do this?!?" enter my head. After the chair lift, everything seems a little easier. So I was quite proud that I managed to get myself down. I know 50 percent of my readership likes how tos, so here are the tricks to wedge turns: (1) look in the direction you're turning. Do not look down, (2) start the wedge before the turn, (3) lean hard on the outside leg and let the inside leg come along for the ride, and (4) try to get in a rhythm of turns, letting your body do the work, rather than over-thinking it.

Well, it was a successful day. If I made a complete fool of myself in front of a bunch of fearless 10-year-olds (ah, to be 10 - although I personally was NEVER fearless), so be it. Although I don't think I did - they were pretty self-absorbed, and I don't think they were watching anyone else.

PEE ESS. Alissa Czisny, not Kimmie Meissner, should be the new US national figure skating champion.