Operation: Ursa Major (Part One)

Ok, so the last time we spoke (not including yesterday’s guilt-slaking update) I was lamenting at length my looming sojourn to the slippery slopes of Snow Summit. No doubt my lack of follow up left many of you worrying for my safety (or survival, for the darker minds in the crowd). Well rest assured, I managed to make it through the weekend unscathed, at least physically, and with a litany of tales to tell. Though constrained my time and the stream-of-conscious style I prefer for this type of endeavor (this will NOT be proofread, even once, so please excuse any typographical errors, factual omissions and verb tense issues) I will try my best to recreate the weekend chronologically, roughly in diary format for easy readability. Enjoy.

SATURDAY

At 4am I am awakened by the blare of my alarm clock alerting me to the wicked snowstorm that was bearing down on the Northeast. Snooze. Michael Jackson’s accuser was cross-examined in a Santa Barbara court yester—Snooze. Mortar fire infiltrated the secure Green Zone, the five square mile area where American operations are centered in Ir—Snooze.

It’s 4:30 and I’m up! Off to an early start in anticipation of the two plus hour drive to Big Bear. And what a beautiful morning it is. I’m lying, of course. At 4:30am dawn is but a pipedream and the misty chill of the previous night still lingers in the air. Back east we call this early morning phenomenon “fog”. Here, the preferred nomenclature is “Marine Layer”. Call it what you will, a glance out my window confirms my suspicions. It is nasty out there. At least what I can see is. It’s still dark. Real dark. And yet here I am, rousing myself from my slumber at an hour when five years earlier I would just be stumbling to bed. Domesticity gone batty.

Thankfully, H was smart enough to pack our bags the night before, so within half an hour we are cruising down a surprisingly hopping Venice Boulevard en route to pick up our accomplices for the weekend, Jaime & Gaffey. J & Gaff are in a similar situation that we are: Gaffey was a regular skier back east (Gaff went to UVM, where I’m pretty sure one must race a slalom and produce a quart of maple syrup from a pine tree in order to graduate), whereas Jaime had a traumatic skiing experience in her past, foreswore the sport completely and yet somehow managed to have a perfectly happy life thereafter. My own loathing for skiing stemmed from an incident far back in my developmental stages and brings me such pain to this day that I dare not divulge it lest it overcome me and I find myself unable to continue. Suffice it to say, neither Jaime nor I had any intention of ever ever EVER being caught dead on a ski slope…that is, until we were hoodwinked by our respective mates into taking this trip.

After a brief stop off to load the car and pick up our aforementioned weekend companions, we’re off. The drive itself was uneventful, which is to say that I have absolutely no recollection of the stretch of the 10 freeway from West LA to San Bernardino. Jaime made some delightful egg sandwiches. I think there were some cars. Mebbe an Arby’s or something. So THAT’S where West Covina is. And that’s about it.

The ascent to Big Bear was as treacherous as I’d remembered. Your typical narrow, windy mountain roads accentuated by deep, thick pockets of Marine Layer that cut visibility to about nil. And yet, spurred on by my companions’ excitement and my own sizable coffee buzz, the trip up was mercifully quick. As we peaked one memorable stretch of highway 330, we burst through the mist like a surfacing submarine into the bright sun, blue skies and rolling emerald hills of the San Bernardino National Forest. The first of several truly breathtaking moments of the trip. It was like that scene from The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy cautiously opens the door of her farmhouse to the Technicolor cacophony of an unknown land. Things, it seems, were looking up.

Driving through downtown Big Bear Village, I am struck by the synthesized small-towniness of my surroundings. Even the Jack in the Box has faux-weathered shingles and tree trunk beams. I am also struck by the lack of activity in the Village, which has the feel of a Jersey shore beach town in February. Barren. Lifeless. A ghost town. And yet a few miles down the road, our destination awaits us, pulsing with vitality and abuzz with promise. The parking lot of Snow Summit, if I might make a comparison, reminded me of tailgating at a football game, except substituting the aroma of barbequed meats with pot smoke. A really festive environment, enough to get even a curmudgeon like yours truly excited about the day to come.

Did I mention how warm it was? At 9am it must have been 60 degrees, and it the sun it felt like 80. And here I am in my long johns and snow pants, thinsulate gloves and Bill Belichick Loverboy headband at the ready. This, I am told, is the magic of California skiing. Sure, there’s altitude and snow and all that jazz…but it’s still Sunny California. I forego further analysis of this anachronism as we lock up the car and head for the ticket line. Three bills later, H and I are off to Le Rental Shack to fit me for the instruments of my demise.

Okay, perhaps shack is too kind a word for this place. Rental Dungeon may be closer. From what I’ve seen so far, the Snow Summit estate is really gorgeous: log cabin lodges and cute little chateaus surrounded by red brick paths and those wood post stands with the notches cut out where you rest your skis and WAIT! Is that barbeque I smell? Hot damn! Alas, the first place you are directed after paying through the nose for your lift ticket is this grimy, fluorescent-lit underground bunker where the skis, boots and poles are rented. The stench of stale athleticism nearly knocked me over. I flashed back to my high school gym locker room and involuntarily shuddered. If I’m subjected to a wedgie, I’m outta here.

AUTHOR’S INTERJECTION: Yes, I realize I’m two pages into this mess without actually having skied yet. Please understand, I am verbose not by choice but by necessity. I won't be offended in the slightest if you wanna stop reading now...especially since I'll never even know.

Have you ever worn ski boots? Apologies to five-inch stiletto heels, but ski boots must be, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable piece of footwear ever invented by the twisted mind of man. They are incredibly snug and stabilizing to the lower leg, owing to the fact, I believe, that at some point they will be required to keep ones ankles from snapping like twigs; the accompanying loss of ankle movement makes it impossible to walk without a certain cowboy swagger. And they are enormous, covered in a hard plastic shell, and ugly as sin. For purposes of comparison, snowboarding boots look like Vans. Big, oversized Vans with big oversized soles and big oversized laces. Essentially, as is the case, I’ve found, with the sports themselves, snowboarding boots are wicked cool, while ski boots are the lamest footwear ever.

But enough about fashion. On to the slopes.

While Gaff and H headed over to “The Kneebreaker” or “Suicide Run” or whatever other triple black diamond cliffjumper course they went to, Jaime and I waddled over to the beginners area, where several dozen other tenderfoots were staring up the hill with the same “I have to go where? with what strapped to my feet?” look emblazoned on their faces.

“How many of you have ever been on skis before?” booms a voice at the front of the group. This is Mark, the ski instructor. He looks like the lost older Wilson brother and sounds Tom Hayden Church in Sideways. He’s wearing goggles. I hate him already.

Mark proceeds to guide us through the finer points of putting on skis, standing in skis, walking sideways in skis, how to stop yourself on skis and getting up if you fall down in skis. A large black woman behind me does not heed the final piece of advice. She is quickly whisked away to an even more remedial group that has popped up behind us. Their instructor is a crazy old bat who is counting and clapping as her group lifts one leg, then the other. Her day job must me teaching jazzercise to retards. I still like her better than Mark.

We learn to turn, and I quickly find that my 90-degree shift has brought me parallel to the downward slope of the beginners’ area. I begin to slide. I try to stop, using the tried-and-true (I am assured) “wedge” method. Failing that, I used the even-more-tried-and-even-more-true “crash into somebody and fall down” method. Only my targets balance saves me from a demotion into the retard class. I follow Mark’s instructions to get back up. This will become a theme for the day, I promise you.

Did I mention how warm it is here? Check that. Did I mention how FUCKING HOT it is here? Honestly, I didn’t even know it snowed on Venus. Jaime and I are peeling off layers like we’re about to go swimming. I’m sweating bullets and Jaime looks fit to pass out. Yay, skiing!

The next two hours were spent learning the painful basics of skiing: ride the chairlift (fun); get off the chairlift (terrifying); slide awkwardly from point A to point B (awkward); fall down (painful); attempt to get back up (even more painful); yell for that fucking cocksucker motherfucker Mark to slow down so I can catch up (embarrassing); catch up with the group (triumphant!) and crash into somebody (equally triumphant, especially if both parties remain upright). Repeat as necessary.

By noon, both Jaime and I were famished, dehydrated, exhausted, disheartened and, it can safely be said, willing to pluck out our own eyes rather than face an afternoon lesson under the tutelage of Motherfuckin’ Mark. A beer at lunch helped. Mebbe two. But our respite is fugacious and Jaime and I are sent off to our afternoon lesson, muttering vulgarities and deathwishes under our breaths all the way, ready to mark this skiing adventure as an unmitigated failure and spend the balance of Sunday getting wasted at the local cantina.

And then we saw her. There, next to the “Adult Lessons Meet Here” sign. Her windblown hair shone in the sun. Her sunglass frames sparkled and her smile beckoned us to come hither. Susan was her name, but everyone calls her Suzie Q. She is the greatest human being I have ever met.

Whether it is typical of beginner lessons or whether Motherfuckin’ Mark scared off the rest of the group, Jaime, myself and one other girl (Erin) found ourselves to be the only pupils in Suzie’s afternoon group. The relief was palpable, since a majority of the lunchtime interim was spent angrily deriding the large class size in the morning and the lack of personal attention (and sometimes downright ambivalence) displayed by Motherfuckin’ Mark.

The afternoon was a dream. Suzie led us through many of the same exercises Motherfuckin’ Mark did, but made it all make sense this time. Instead of repeating “roll your knees!” as MM did, Suzie would point to her left leg, say “Put your weight on this leg” and then actually watch as you did it. Our confidence swelled. We made at least six or seven runs without falling. Suzie’s birthday was that week and all the other instructors skiing by wished her well and joke around with her. The positive vibes overflowed to us, filling us with cheer and optimism. We were skiing! In t-shirts! Sure the surface was more slush than snow, and yes, I couldn’t move more much faster than I could walking through cement, and yeah, Jaime almost got mowed down by an out-of-control redheaded demon child on a snowboard, but things were looking up. At the start of our last run, we made Suzie promise to have us back the next day. She accepted. We tipped generously and sighed like lovelorn teenagers as she skied away.

TO BE CONTINUED…(sorry, I’m sick of typing)