NOTE: Pictures for proof coming soon.
Because we knew the slopes would be crowded on a holiday, Lindsey, Sam, Liam and I awoke before dawn to drive 1.5 hours to the ski resort and get our tickets to go snowboarding (first time for my “little” brother Liam and me) by 7:30 am. Apparently about three hundred other people had the same idea.
In my bitter, groggy, morning stupor I started ticking off reasons in my head why surfing is probably the better outdoor activity:
One: six layers of clothing are not necessary. Two: An hour and a half drive isn’t always necessary either.
We had snow clothes from our parents’ snow boxes and friends who actually lived in places where snow exists (Three: you don’t have to borrow other people’s snow pants). After unloading the boards and boots and strapping everything on (Four: no boots that keep your knees from straightening) we headed up the hill to the line to purchase our lift tickets.
I, of course, had to stop and use the restroom. We lumbered our pillowed selves into the sopping bathroom where a little girl whimpered at the far end of the stalls:
“Moooomm….I can’t go….it’s too hard in all of these clothes.”
As soon as I was in a stall I agreed with her whole heartedly.
Five: you don’t have to peel off seven layers to go to the bathroom and somehow fit those layers in a tiny stall.
At the ticket line we stood with nearly every junior-high and high school student in Los Angeles who had gathered with their clucking, already half-drunk parents to purchase lift tickets.
How in the world did this many people think it fun to get up this early, strap on this much clothing, and then stand in frozen wind before tempting death on a slope?
Six: No lines to get into the water.
About forty-five minutes later, we finally climbed onto….
…a moving carpet conveyer belt. Nope, not a ski lift.
This took little children (practically straight out of the womb) up to the top of the bunny slope. As we got onto the moving carpet I glanced at the rather steep bunny hill and noticed two year olds were flying down the hill on snowboards the size of my shin. Fantastic!, I thought, This should be easy.
Then the conveyer belt broke. Of course.
Seven: No conveyer belts to break.
Lindsey, who had done this before, hopped up and took off down the slope—wobbling a bit but nevertheless, she moved.
I stood up and immediately slammed into a tree. So did Liam. But due to his massive size, he recovered more quickly.
Ok, I thought to myself, I just need a strategy.
“Don’t these things come with any training sticks?” I asked my brother in law.
I was half offended when he only laughed in response.
Liam was now zipping around and occasionally sliding down backwards. He’s already learning tricks?! I thought, as I crawled on my hands and knees (board strapped to the left foot) over to the area of slope where Lindsey had gone down. I thought it would be easier over there. But once I’d reached it, I couldn’t turn myself around from my hands and knees. Flipping over isn’t so easy with a board the size of your body strapped to one foot.
I laid there twisted like a piece of curly hair, on the side of the hill, while five year olds glared in confusion at my form before they jumped over me with their boards. Eight: the board is attached only to a leash, not your entire leg.
I managed to finally flip myself over, slide into another tree, and pull myself up to go again. Before I could brace myself in a proper position, I swiveled around backwards on accident and started sliding speedily down the mountain.
Oh crap. I thought as I tried to stop myself. Not a trick.... Not a trick.
Nothing happened. I bent forward and tried to land on my face—thinking that might work—but only succeeded in grasping at the icy slope with my fingers and continuing downhill completely bent over. Nine: if you mess up, you just fall off the board. It doesn’t take you down to hell with it.
At this point I was screaming in case anyone was so unlucky as to be behind me, while my gloves cut grooves into the hard-packed snow. The only way I could determine whether or not I was actually going to clobber someone was by looking down between my legs where I saw Lindsey perched on the ground beside Sam.
That’s an odd place to take a rest, I thought. Don't they know people are coming down the hill at ridiculously high speeds with no way of stopping? Of course "people" was actually me, and I don't think anyone else had "no way of stopping". They didn’t move, however, so I lunged face-first into the snow in order to stop. And I stayed there until I couldn’t breathe anymore.
I might have tried that slope again going face forward but unfortunately we didn’t have the chance. Lindsey wasn’t perched on the snow taking a rest.
She had broken her hand.
Lindsey, hating to inconvenience people, told us to go back on the slope---she would enjoy the fumes from the gas stove on the patio of the ski place and wait for her hand to heal itself. Sam shook his head and smiled to himself. Of course she would.
None of us, of course, fancied that idea so we all took the trip to the Med Hut where we met a man who’d had an even worse morning than Lindsey: his collar bone was wiggling around inside his shoulder skin.
Ten: Less likely to break something. And for that matter, something really useful.
Once her hand was bound into a cardboard sling we went back out into the cold where drunken skiers flew down all over the mountain. Lindsey kept apologizing for her injury—in between tears and laughter—while we sipped cocoa on the patio and stared at a girl in a sleeping bag on top of a picnic table.
I want to say that’s odd, I thought as I looked at her, but really, who am I to judge?
By that time the base of the bunny slope was filled with young children flat on their backs or faces.
Fine by me we aren’t snowboarding anymore, Linds. Fine by me.
Because we knew the slopes would be crowded on a holiday, Lindsey, Sam, Liam and I awoke before dawn to drive 1.5 hours to the ski resort and get our tickets to go snowboarding (first time for my “little” brother Liam and me) by 7:30 am. Apparently about three hundred other people had the same idea.
In my bitter, groggy, morning stupor I started ticking off reasons in my head why surfing is probably the better outdoor activity:
One: six layers of clothing are not necessary. Two: An hour and a half drive isn’t always necessary either.
We had snow clothes from our parents’ snow boxes and friends who actually lived in places where snow exists (Three: you don’t have to borrow other people’s snow pants). After unloading the boards and boots and strapping everything on (Four: no boots that keep your knees from straightening) we headed up the hill to the line to purchase our lift tickets.
I, of course, had to stop and use the restroom. We lumbered our pillowed selves into the sopping bathroom where a little girl whimpered at the far end of the stalls:
“Moooomm….I can’t go….it’s too hard in all of these clothes.”
As soon as I was in a stall I agreed with her whole heartedly.
Five: you don’t have to peel off seven layers to go to the bathroom and somehow fit those layers in a tiny stall.
At the ticket line we stood with nearly every junior-high and high school student in Los Angeles who had gathered with their clucking, already half-drunk parents to purchase lift tickets.
How in the world did this many people think it fun to get up this early, strap on this much clothing, and then stand in frozen wind before tempting death on a slope?
Six: No lines to get into the water.
About forty-five minutes later, we finally climbed onto….
…a moving carpet conveyer belt. Nope, not a ski lift.
This took little children (practically straight out of the womb) up to the top of the bunny slope. As we got onto the moving carpet I glanced at the rather steep bunny hill and noticed two year olds were flying down the hill on snowboards the size of my shin. Fantastic!, I thought, This should be easy.
Then the conveyer belt broke. Of course.
Seven: No conveyer belts to break.
Lindsey, who had done this before, hopped up and took off down the slope—wobbling a bit but nevertheless, she moved.
I stood up and immediately slammed into a tree. So did Liam. But due to his massive size, he recovered more quickly.
Ok, I thought to myself, I just need a strategy.
“Don’t these things come with any training sticks?” I asked my brother in law.
I was half offended when he only laughed in response.
Liam was now zipping around and occasionally sliding down backwards. He’s already learning tricks?! I thought, as I crawled on my hands and knees (board strapped to the left foot) over to the area of slope where Lindsey had gone down. I thought it would be easier over there. But once I’d reached it, I couldn’t turn myself around from my hands and knees. Flipping over isn’t so easy with a board the size of your body strapped to one foot.
I laid there twisted like a piece of curly hair, on the side of the hill, while five year olds glared in confusion at my form before they jumped over me with their boards. Eight: the board is attached only to a leash, not your entire leg.
I managed to finally flip myself over, slide into another tree, and pull myself up to go again. Before I could brace myself in a proper position, I swiveled around backwards on accident and started sliding speedily down the mountain.
Oh crap. I thought as I tried to stop myself. Not a trick.... Not a trick.
Nothing happened. I bent forward and tried to land on my face—thinking that might work—but only succeeded in grasping at the icy slope with my fingers and continuing downhill completely bent over. Nine: if you mess up, you just fall off the board. It doesn’t take you down to hell with it.
At this point I was screaming in case anyone was so unlucky as to be behind me, while my gloves cut grooves into the hard-packed snow. The only way I could determine whether or not I was actually going to clobber someone was by looking down between my legs where I saw Lindsey perched on the ground beside Sam.
That’s an odd place to take a rest, I thought. Don't they know people are coming down the hill at ridiculously high speeds with no way of stopping? Of course "people" was actually me, and I don't think anyone else had "no way of stopping". They didn’t move, however, so I lunged face-first into the snow in order to stop. And I stayed there until I couldn’t breathe anymore.
I might have tried that slope again going face forward but unfortunately we didn’t have the chance. Lindsey wasn’t perched on the snow taking a rest.
She had broken her hand.
Lindsey, hating to inconvenience people, told us to go back on the slope---she would enjoy the fumes from the gas stove on the patio of the ski place and wait for her hand to heal itself. Sam shook his head and smiled to himself. Of course she would.
None of us, of course, fancied that idea so we all took the trip to the Med Hut where we met a man who’d had an even worse morning than Lindsey: his collar bone was wiggling around inside his shoulder skin.
Ten: Less likely to break something. And for that matter, something really useful.
Once her hand was bound into a cardboard sling we went back out into the cold where drunken skiers flew down all over the mountain. Lindsey kept apologizing for her injury—in between tears and laughter—while we sipped cocoa on the patio and stared at a girl in a sleeping bag on top of a picnic table.
I want to say that’s odd, I thought as I looked at her, but really, who am I to judge?
By that time the base of the bunny slope was filled with young children flat on their backs or faces.
Fine by me we aren’t snowboarding anymore, Linds. Fine by me.
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