Skiing, at age two-and-three-quarters

I've been tagged by Kitty over at NY Portraits, and instead of doing the meme, this time I'll post a picture from my childhood. :)

This is my family when I was little. Yes, that's me in the green.

Yes, I started skiing when I was just a few months shy of my third birthday.



Here's the original



I have fond memories of piling into the family car with my dad and sisters, heading up the mountain to hit the slopes, with Neil Diamond's "Coming to America" blasting from the car stereo. We lived on the benches of the Wasatch Mountains and were just 15-20 minutes away from a handful of major ski resorts. Solitude, Alta, and Snowbird. Needless to say, we went skiing often. We learned the basics on the bunny hill at Snowbird, then graduated to the more difficult runs dotted up and down Little Cottonwood Canyon.

While in elementary school we mostly haunted the slopes at Solitude. They were closest and the least expensive of the resorts up the canyon. I have many fond memories going through the tree runs off to the side of Sesame Street (one of their most popular green runs).

I once got stuck under a gigantic pine tree after spectacularly crashing while skiing through the Sesame Street tree runs. I landed with a thwack against the snowy ground then slid down toward a tree trunk. My body slanting down, head toward the trunk, with skis up toward the trail, I wasn't injured, but was stuck. Immobolized, I thought I was going to die a cold and lonely death before anyone ever found me (most likely during the spring thaw). I cried for what seemed like hours, and no one answered my pleas for help.

Here' a fine work of art that I labored over for hours, that might help you visualize my predicament.

After realizing neither my sisters nor some good Samaritan was going to save me, and that I probably wasn't going to die right away, I managed to pull myself out from the pit and skied on to find my sisters waiting at the end of the run. They weren't too concerned about my near brush with death, and so after a few brief moments of making sure I wasn't bleeding anywhere, we were off to the next run.

As I grew older, we frequented Alta (my favorite, challenging trails and no snow boarders) and Park City Mountain Resort.

Things I love about skiing: the crunch of snow beneath your boots or skis, crisp air, brisk breezes; the smell of grilled hamburgers and fries as you ski past the restaurants perched half-way up the mountain; the wind as it rushes past your face as you fly down the mountain and the rushing sound that fills your ears; the solitude and pervasive peace that claims you as you carve your way down a wide slope or narrow cat track, and how silence presses in when there are not many people on the slopes; the feeling of freedom; the fun camaraderie of friends and family as you try new tricks or trails; the accomplishment I feel when I'm practicing proper technique; or the happiness I feel when I get over my jitteryness from the first run of the season and finally feel comfortable flying down the slopes, knees bending, snow shushing, and muscle memory returning.

But before I get carried away, let me say that I'm a scaredie cat (spelling?) at heart, that I'd rather take a nice blue run over a couple of black diamonds any day. That I almost passed out (complete with tunnel vision, dizziness, and tears) while peering off a drop-off in a snow storm so bad you couldn't see 15 feet in front of you. What did I do? Why I sat down and scooted my way half-way down the hill on my rear-end (much to the chagrin of my brother who won't ever let me live that moment down). You see, I ruined the fresh powder for all those who came after me...

So there you have it, me and the slopes. Fond memories and good times, too bad childhood doesn't last forever.

Do you ski?

-Bitter