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Snow Bunny
The skis I used then still lean in a dusty corner of my garage today. They are ancient contraptions of wood, with complicated metal and leather harnesses for attaching the toes of the hiking boots that I skied in back then. The ski poles are still there too, home built from pieces of a TV antenna with glued on plywood disks and thin leather thongs to hold them to my wrists. I well remember using a herringbone step to make my way across the road to the base of the skiing area that, for a season or two, operated in Cook Forest. At the base of the hill was a large engine that dragged a loop of rope around a pulley at the top of the slope. It was so noisy you could barely hear the instructions the operator gave on how to grab the rope to get towed to the top. Still, monkey-see, monkey-do did the trick, as it so often does in life, and soon I was concentrating on steering my skis as I was slowly dragged up the hill. At the top, I got a 15-minute lesson on the intricacies of using the "snowplow" method to steer and stop my skis, and was then let loose on the 100-yard slope to become expert at its use. Although I had a great time fooling around on that slope, I never did become very good at either steering or stopping. At dusk we all retired to our cabin, where we huddled around the fireplace and recounted the triumphs and disasters of the day. And that was the end of my downhill career --- until today. We left early this Sunday morning and drove on empty roads, lightly dusted with snow, north along the Allegheny River. The countryside was great to look at, and the Scouts that rode with me talked mostly about the end of the quiet time for Scouting that follows the Christmas holidays. Sure, they had been out selling popcorn, and attending the weekly meetings. Sure, they had been part of two Blue and Gold banquets where they had met 9 new boys who would be joining the troop in March. But fun as these things were, they were not really the stuff of adventure that every Scout craves. Now though, we were off to New York to go skiing, and next weekend we go camping for three days on the snow. Things were definitely looking up and there was a lot to discuss. About 9 a.m. we arrived at Peek n' Peak near Clymer, New York. I was expecting something more grand than that old rope tow of my youth, but I was, nonetheless, amazed at the operation that greeted us. From the parking lot we could see ski trails zebra-striping the mountain, and chair lifts that would haul us to the top in comfort. We met the rest of the guys at a room we had rented for the day, and then went to a large equipment area where we were fitted out with skis, boots and poles. The boots amazed me. Great clumps of plastic, into which you clamped your feet, and that made you walk like Frankenstein. They were perfect for the task at hand, as with a stamp of each foot, you were firmly attached, heel and toe, to your skis. We were soon floundering toward the beginners' area, where a very capable young instructor joined us. For the next two hours, she taught us about the equipment, how to use the "wedge" to slow down and turn, and, with growing excitement on my part, how to hop onto a chair lift that took us to the top of the bunny slope. I fell getting off the lift, but then my muscles seemed to remember that winter long ago, and soon I was sailing down the beginners slope with wild abandon. All afternoon, we novices had a great time exploring the nooks and crannies of the beginners' area. I skied with everyone, but it was Bacon, a twelve-year-old, who most closely matched my skill level, and so it was with Bacon that I most often raced down the 600-yard slope to the bottom. Sometimes we went straight down at full tilt; sometimes we took a slow-turning path through the woods. Best of all were the impromptu slalom courses that we devised as we rode the lift, and then followed as we zigzagged our way back down --- speeding around signs that said "Slow", picking our way through groups of amateurs who did not have our hours of experience, and finally skidding to a stop at the line to remount the chair lift for the next run. I have never had so much fun in the snow!
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Thirty-five
years ago, I began my downhill skiing career. On a crisp winter
weekend, Ray Mohney, our Scoutmaster, took our gang to Cook
Now,
back at home, and after a 3-hour nap, I sit before my computer and
type in this little write-up of the day. And my shoulder hurts from
a crash I had, and my wrist hurts from another crash I had, and my
ribs hurt from still another crash I had. I also seem to be feeling
some stiffness in my joints that was not there this morning, and I
am very interested to see just how my body will feel tomorrow
morning, after it has decided just how much discomfort I deserve for
playing the games of youth at the age of 53. Still, whatever
tomorrow brings, I will still wear a smile and count the adventure
as well worth the price. And, too, I can now truthfully boast that I
have been skiing for over 30 years!