I've gone skiing once in my life. Just once. In the Midwest. On a hill. If Lindsey Vonn were a dictionary entry, my picture would be its antonym. I have been, am and always will be a beach girl. I like laying on the sand, playing beach volleyball and having my glorious Irish skin subjected to the sun. My family always went to warm places for vacation, so I have never gotten into skiing or snowboarding. Being stationed here, the Sierra Nevada mountains are only two hours away so it would be a waste NOT to try skiing there. Base Services offered a free bus ride to the ski resort down there last month, so El and I decided to give it a shot. We fancy ourselves adventurous, and willing to try new things (like hostels in Brugge for only 30 euros a night....shudder), so why not give skiing another go? He hadn't been skiing since he was about 9 years old, so it wasn't like he was incredibly more advanced than me. A good thing, because I can barely walk without finding something to trip over.
The bus left from base at 7am sharp and took about 3 hours to make it down to Sierra Nevada. Elliot made us some breakfast sandwiches to munch on before going the f#$% (said in Samuel L. Jackson voice, for those of you familiar with that book) to sleep for that drive. The bus dropped us off at the adorable little ski village that looks like it should be encapsuled in a snow globe: all sorts of ski and snowboard shops, cafes, picturesque hotels and apartment buildings that are set in a snowy, mountain background. A-Dores-able. Elliot, Jeff and I decided to stick together for the day and got our ski equipment from the first shop we saw. Ski, boots, and pole rentals were only 15 euro/each, so it wasn't too bad of a deal. When I tried on the boots, they were snug but I didn't try walking in them. Elliot said that they needed to be tight, so I figured I was okay with that size. I would later rue that choice.
We waited in line for a good 30 minutes before being able to buy ski lift passes. Now THOSE were pricey, but unfortunately necessary. The area is basically a system of levels: The ski village is the lowest level. From there, you take a gondola to the next highest level. From there, you can either ski back down to the village or take various ski lifts to different heights. The higher you went, the steeper the mountain became, and a great skier you better damn well be. There are also a few lodges for food and using the bathroom, along with an inner-tube area, so it's not a "if you don't ski, you're stuck" situation.
Elliot, Jeff and I put on our ski boots while riding the shakier-than-I'd-prefer gondola, and I almost fell flat on my face when I tried walking in them. The boots were obviously too tight, as they were digging into my shins, and incredibly difficult to walk in. Pair that wearing a backpack and carrying my poles and skis, and you have a hot mess that looked like Bambi walking on a frozen pond.
No matter how many times I'd attempt to regain my composure (and things), I would still manage to drop a pole, or a ski, or multiple poles or skis. Jeff took pity on me and helped carry my poles for me. With every dropped item, I could feel my frustration level rising, and I was trying very hard not to judge the experience of skiing without actually trying it first.
For those of you who have had the good fortune of being in Europe, you probably are familiar with the concept of an European line...or lack thereof. Rather than form single file lines where people take their turns one at a time, Europeans tend to just crowd each other. Even for things like getting Communion at mass, people are cut-throat and try to box out their fellow man. As I've gotten older, I've gradually become a more patient person, but lines in Europe set me back a good 10 years. My patience grows even thinner when you have people wearing ski/snowboard equipment while in "line". While waiting to get on our first ski lift, we had people standing on top of our skis with theirs, and there was a general "me first" attitude. After waiting in that crowd for 30 minutes, I felt like this guy on the inside:
http://www.zazzle.com/angry_donald_duck_mousepad-144812446405438100
We finally got our turn on the chair lift, and as my annoyance decreased, my fear increased. From where we were standing on the lower level, the chair didn't seem to go too terribly high. Yet while on the lift, it seemed to never end. Keep in mind that this was only my second time skiing EVER, and my first going down a mountain. When we (finally) reached the end of the chair lift, we slid down the little platform and I immediately fell. That's when I looked out at the mountain in front of me, which coincidentally was also about the time my panic set in.
Since Jeff is an experienced skier, he gave me some pointers on how to move, slow down and stop. He and Elliot also had the unpleasant task of convincing me that I wasn't going to die on that mountain. Any time I'd gain the slightest hint of speed, I went into full-fledged scaredy-cat mode and would immediately fall, skis coming off in the process. It would then take Elliot and personal Herculean strength to get my skis back on right before I inched a few more feet down the mountain sideways. Not wanting to spoil Jeff's day, despite his patience and willingness to help me, we waved him on to actually enjoy his day of skiing. I tried to wave off Elliot as well, since despite him not having skied since he was 9, he looked like he was born wearing skis, but he was hearing nothing of it. To be honest with you, if he wasn't there I may have a) cried b) peed my pants or c) both. After over TWO HOURS of me sideways crawling down the mountain, and hundreds of curse words later, we finally made it to the bottom. I even started to get a little bit of a rhythm going when the land started flattening out. But my God, there was never a sweeter moment that when Courtney reached the bottom of that mountain.
After practically kissing the ground like a marooned sailor, we rested and ate like horses in the one lodge cafeteria. It was there that I noticed that my entire shirt was SOAKED with my scared sweat. Granted, I had to wear my backpack while skiing b/c of lack of available lockers, but man, I was a real pansy going down that mountain.
After lunch, Elliot and I did the bunny hill...where I was very quickly shown up by the two year olds who were zipping past me. In hindsight, we probably should have started there.... After a confidence-building run where I didn't fall, we attempted the next level hill. I made it down with only managing to fall once, so my confidence was almost back to baseline. We had time for one more run before heading back to the bus. Fortunately, it was taking me less and less time to make it down the mountain the more runs I did, so I was feeling pretty good by that last round. We awkwardly shared the chair lift with some random girl (who sat between us, making it even more awkward) who kept singing the "No, I don't have a gun" lyric from Nirvana's "Come as you are". That was the only lyric she knew, and she sang it multiple times. I was actually trying not to laugh because it was just an all-around bizarre situation. Once she hopped off the chair, Elliot and I shrugged our shoulders in bewilderment and went down the mountain one last time.
I was doing well enough on my way down that Elliot was able to ski ahead of me without having to worry about me creating a human snowball. Of course, the second he starts zipping along, I crashed. Oh, and I crashed big and hard. That fall was the kind that instantly gives you a headache. As I'm lying in the snow, looking like Randy in A Christmas Story, my skis 10 feet ahead of me, a Spanish girl kindly stopped and asked if I needed help. She fetched my skis for me, and double-checked that I was okay before taking off. At this point, Elliot saw that I was no longer behind him and stopped.
Dazed and most definitely confused, I remembered that I had some Advil in my backpack. Burrowed in a little snow bank, I tried to retrieve two capsules without taking my gloves off. Since I was wearing a pair of Elliot's gloves (I'd been calling them murder gloves all day b/c they were this worn black leather kind), my grip was a bit off and the pills flew EVERYWHERE. Little green Advil liqui-gels contrasting brightly against the white snow. If I were skiing by me, I wouldn't know whether to laugh or pity me. After three failed attempts at getting my skis back on, I gave up and walked down with them to where Elliot was waiting. He helped me get myself together and guided me to the bottom of the mountain. I had some serious bruises on my shins from my too-tight boots, and a nasty headache from that last tumble, so I took the gondola down to the village while Elliot skied down. When I met him down there, he looked a little worse for wear, and I guess the route was MUCH more difficult than he anticipated. He had taken a few headers on his way down, so we both looked like a couple of hot messes when we met up with everyone for some drinks before heading home.
I can't promise that I'll start skiing regularly, or if I'll go again anytime soon, but I will definitely try it again at some point in the future. The most important parts of the trip are that I conquered my fear of heights (well, sort of), and that I kept getting up every time I fell. I was damn proud of myself, but next time, I'm getting boots that fit.
No comments:
Post a Comment