Operation: Ursa Major (Part Two)
And we’re back.
When we last saw our heroes, they had just finished their first lesson under the kind tutelage of ski instructor Suzie Q, who, in the course of two hours, managed to undo the trauma inflicted upon us by Motherfuckin’ Mark’s ambivalence and transform Jaime and I from huddled masses of wintry discontent into true ski-believers. Not only were we standing (yes, actually standing!) on skis, but also we were now able to not only move laterally, but also travel in a downward trajectory, from the top of the beginner’s slope to the bottom. Without falling. Or screaming for our mothers or Christ’s deliverance. Truly amazing stuff.
As afternoon faded into evening, Jaime and I met back up with H and Gaff, who had managed to survive their travails on Suicide Run to join us at the lodge. Ah, the lodge; a well-deserved respite at the end of a long day of tempting fate. One Two Three Heinies later, and we’re on the road back through town to our lodging for the night: the enigmatically named Nature’s Inn.
This is where things start getting weird. The “hotel” (and I shudder to call it that) was clearly a converted home, with two of the rooms located upstairs from a haphazard “lounge” area (replete with Reader’s Digests from the 70s and a pool table with only eight balls—more on this later, if I remember). The rest of the rooms are added on to the side of the house, a strip reminiscent of a beachfront shantytown. After checking in with the man at the desk (Larry David meets Norman Bates) and his aluminum-chewing children/underage hostages, we are directed towards our quarters for the night. Room 8. Upstairs. The Bald Eagle Room.
Yes, the Bald Eagle Room.
Let me extrapolate for a moment on the Bald Eagle Room, if I might, as an introduction to our accommodations. The Bald Eagle Room is CLEARLY a converted master bedroom suite from when an actual family lived at the Nature’s Inn, long before Larry/Norman hacked them to bits and fed them to his pigs. The room consisted of one large room with a king sized bed, a beautiful fireplace and hearth, a two-person Jacuzzi (yes, in the middle of the bedroom) and no fewer than FIFTEEN pieces of “art” related to America’s national bird. Bald Eagles adorned the walls in at LEAST seven or eight different paintings. One featured a brown bear, drinking from a placid stream, with ghostly visages of a bald eagle, a wolf, a bobcat and a frickin’ falcon spewing from it’s head. Others showed the eagle in various degrees of soaring, swooping, diving and rising, each maintaining the majesty of the bird as its focal point. There was a small bald eagle bust on the nightstand. There was a mirror whose frame was a plaster cast of an eagle in flight. Eagle lamp, you say? Oh yes. Eagle tapestry? Check. I was suddenly very pleased not to have been settled in our other choices: The Wolf Room, The Bobcat Room, or the Ball-gagged Gimp Room.
The rest of the place was pretty sad. The other set of beds were in a separate section of the “suite”, a small doorless enclave that must have been a closet in its previous incarnation. Big enough for one single bed, max. Or, if enterprising to make room for four: Bunk Beds. I don’t know where the coin flip happened or what side was chosen or whose fingernails got driven into whose eye-sockets before a decision was made, but I do know this: MY girlfriend got us the king-sized bed. Gaff & Jaime got the bunks. And while I truly feel for the awkwardness of having to share a romantic weekend getaway on different levels of bedding, I must admit that after seeing the room, I was infinitely less scared of Gaff’s earlier proclamation of “I call top!” No bald eagles in their room though.
The rest of the evening is not much to write home (or blog) about: we all showered (separately…sorry folks) and changed and went out to dinner at some local family restaurant with a menu full of steak and the leanest salad bar ever created. It looked like the fixin’s bar at Baja Fresh ferchrissakes. I had more greenery on my baked potato than was on this salad bar. But I digress. I neglected to mention that Gaffey got a wicked sunburn in the morning and it was just really coming to fruition at this point, so he passed out a couple of times while we sat there. We returned to the Land of Eagles and my party crew was asleep by 10:00. I made a fire and enjoyed the serenity of nature. I was asleep by 10:30. Goddamn, we are old.
SUNDAY
At 7am I am awakened by the blare of my alarm clock…ok, that’s not true. I was awake before that. The fuckin’ curtains in the Bald Eagle Room are faux lace and porous, equivalent to hanging strands of shredded paper from a curtain rod. I’ve always been the type that needs real darkness to keep sleeping. No worries here, as the dawn’s first light had me up-and-at-‘em far before the alarm went off. Apparently the Bunk Twins next door were awake early too, as I heard them rummaging around before the alarm sounded as well. H, as usual, needed to be woken up with a bullhorn.
Regardless of our early start, we managed to get to the hill a bit late, thanks to an ill-fated stop at the local Vons for a banana breakfast and Gaff’s battle with the automated teller machine machine. Hustling up, oh, say, eighty five thousand flights of stairs to the lockers where we stored our gear, Jaime and I were frantic that we would miss our 9:45 appointment with Suzie Q and thus be cast back into the pool of the instructorless. Thankfully, everyone else’s schedule seemed to run on mañana time as well, so we met up with Suzie and Erin (the old gang!).
I realize now that this account has passed the six-page mark and has reached the point of oversaturation with skiing minutiae (not to mention that some of my snarky comments are beginning to repeat themselves). In the interest of time and my own sanity (and because I really wanna go in my boss’ office and watch some basketball, I will dispense with the blow-by-blow account of Sunday and focus on two of the more important instances of the day.
IMPORTANT INSTANCE #1: MY ADVENTURES ON SUICIDE RUN
After another enjoyable and surprisingly uneventful morning lesson with Suzie Q, Jaime and I joined the Bobsie twins for lunch at the lodge (ah, chili fries…the lunch of champions) and somehow got talked into an afternoon adventure: we would try our luck on an actual ski slope, the lackluster named Summit Run. That’s right. With a mere six hours of actual ski time, Jaime and I agreed to take a ride to the TOP OF THE FRICKING MOUNTAIN! In a CHAIR! And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, we then were expected to SKI DOWN IT! ON SKIS!!!
The chairlift ride, in my opinion, was one of the highlights of the trip. Just a slow, steady ride through relative wilderness, the wind whipping through your hair and your feet dangling in the breeze. I took a deep breath and felt at one with nature. We ate M&Ms. Jaime dug her fingernails into Gaff’s arm until she drew blood. Good times.
We reached the top of the mountain and had some snowboarder chick take our picture with the mountains in the background. Then we took her picture with the ski lift in the background. Different strokes, I guess. Then it was time to head to the slope.
I really can’t do justice to the feelings I had as I came to the crest of the hill. Excitement? No. Anticipation? Nope. Panic? Warmer. Suffice it to say I was COMPLETELY underprepared for what lay ahead of me. The difference in grade between the beginners hill (OK, fine, the Bunny Slope…happy?) and this, the easiest of the “real” hills, was night and fuckin’ day. The next half hour was a blur of kicked up slush, fast approaching precipices and snot-nosed brats whizzing by at mach 12. I’m not sure how long the run was, but I can easily estimate that I was completely out of control (i.e. up on one ski, poles flailing, eyes bulged and, at times, screaming like a schoolgirl) for about 97% of the time. The other 3%, I was lying flat on my back, wishing for God to manufacture and avalanche that would end my embarrassment, or staring daggers at H, who seemed to be enjoying herself swooshing hither and thither in her snow bunny garb. “Go ahead and swoosh,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll have my revenge on the ride home.” I had no idea how right I would be (more on that soon).
Needless to say, I DID make it to the bottom of the mountain, upright and not too much worse for wear. I wish I could say the same for Gaffey. No, he didn’t get hurt or anything, but I can’t imagine carrying someone else’s skis down the mountain while they walk behind was very enjoyable. The funny thing is, the entire time I was careening down the slope, I was looking back up the hill at Jaime’s remarkably steady, albeit slow, progress down the hill. She took to heart every lesson that Suzie showed us, from slowing down to turning to getting skis parallel to the hill—everything—and yet she still couldn’t make it to the end. Whereas I skied like a man on fire and made it to the bottom of the hill unscathed in spite of myself. This lesson led me to two conclusions:
1. Jaime is a better skier than she gives herself credit for; and
2. Skiing is the easily the most retarded activity I’ve ever done in my life.
And speaking of retards, let’s move along to…
IMPORTANT INSTANCE #2: MR. BEN’S WILD RIDE
So we pack up the car, change our clothes and get on the road. I hope to start our drive home before dark, but the way the setting sun glared into my eyes, it seemed a stop for dinner at Señor Hog’s (I can’t make shit like that up) before the journey was a good idea. I was so fucking wrong.
By the time we started our descent, the goddamn Marine Layer had returned. And this time it was personal. The windy mountain roads that seemed a challenge just the morning before had become the instruments of my imminent doom. I felt as though I was driving through soup. I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. I actually visualized missing a curve and had the thought “mebbe I’ll just be paralyzed” go through my mind. NOT good times. And that was BEFORE the rockslide.
Y’know when you’re on those windy mountain roads and you see the signs that say “Danger: Rock Slide” and you’re like “yeah, yeah, rock slide, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Well I fuckin’ saw it. H saw and Jaime saw it too. Gaff didn’t see shit ‘cause he was passed out again. Or maybe he was just pretending in order to hide his panic. With a sheer wall to our right and a double yellow line and the great beyond to our left, a small boulder (or, if you prefer, a “rock”) slid down the side of the mountain and into the side of the car. I panicked. OK, I didn’t run the car off the road or anything, but I did almost throw up my HEART, so there’s that. This was, without a doubt, the worst driving conditions I’ve ever encountered I honestly can’t emphasize it enough. I thought we were dead.
And then, as quickly as it came, it dissipated.
And then it came back again, for another half an hour of driving hell. I stayed glued to the red lights emanating from the minivan in front of me. When the minivan turned off the road, I stayed glued to the yellow line. I crouched over the steering wheel like an 80-year old at the farmer’s market. Bad fuckin’ times.
But yet, here I am. Alive. And in one piece. And thankful for the gods of snow and fog for sparing me. Oh, ye gods of snow and fog, never again shall I tempt you with my cries of “Skiing is for pussies!” or “We can leave whenever, I don’t mind driving!” I have served my penance and I beg for your divine forgiveness! Release me from this purgatory, I beseech thee!!!
Sigh.
So, anyone wanna go skiing?
When we last saw our heroes, they had just finished their first lesson under the kind tutelage of ski instructor Suzie Q, who, in the course of two hours, managed to undo the trauma inflicted upon us by Motherfuckin’ Mark’s ambivalence and transform Jaime and I from huddled masses of wintry discontent into true ski-believers. Not only were we standing (yes, actually standing!) on skis, but also we were now able to not only move laterally, but also travel in a downward trajectory, from the top of the beginner’s slope to the bottom. Without falling. Or screaming for our mothers or Christ’s deliverance. Truly amazing stuff.
As afternoon faded into evening, Jaime and I met back up with H and Gaff, who had managed to survive their travails on Suicide Run to join us at the lodge. Ah, the lodge; a well-deserved respite at the end of a long day of tempting fate. One Two Three Heinies later, and we’re on the road back through town to our lodging for the night: the enigmatically named Nature’s Inn.
This is where things start getting weird. The “hotel” (and I shudder to call it that) was clearly a converted home, with two of the rooms located upstairs from a haphazard “lounge” area (replete with Reader’s Digests from the 70s and a pool table with only eight balls—more on this later, if I remember). The rest of the rooms are added on to the side of the house, a strip reminiscent of a beachfront shantytown. After checking in with the man at the desk (Larry David meets Norman Bates) and his aluminum-chewing children/underage hostages, we are directed towards our quarters for the night. Room 8. Upstairs. The Bald Eagle Room.
Yes, the Bald Eagle Room.
Let me extrapolate for a moment on the Bald Eagle Room, if I might, as an introduction to our accommodations. The Bald Eagle Room is CLEARLY a converted master bedroom suite from when an actual family lived at the Nature’s Inn, long before Larry/Norman hacked them to bits and fed them to his pigs. The room consisted of one large room with a king sized bed, a beautiful fireplace and hearth, a two-person Jacuzzi (yes, in the middle of the bedroom) and no fewer than FIFTEEN pieces of “art” related to America’s national bird. Bald Eagles adorned the walls in at LEAST seven or eight different paintings. One featured a brown bear, drinking from a placid stream, with ghostly visages of a bald eagle, a wolf, a bobcat and a frickin’ falcon spewing from it’s head. Others showed the eagle in various degrees of soaring, swooping, diving and rising, each maintaining the majesty of the bird as its focal point. There was a small bald eagle bust on the nightstand. There was a mirror whose frame was a plaster cast of an eagle in flight. Eagle lamp, you say? Oh yes. Eagle tapestry? Check. I was suddenly very pleased not to have been settled in our other choices: The Wolf Room, The Bobcat Room, or the Ball-gagged Gimp Room.
The rest of the place was pretty sad. The other set of beds were in a separate section of the “suite”, a small doorless enclave that must have been a closet in its previous incarnation. Big enough for one single bed, max. Or, if enterprising to make room for four: Bunk Beds. I don’t know where the coin flip happened or what side was chosen or whose fingernails got driven into whose eye-sockets before a decision was made, but I do know this: MY girlfriend got us the king-sized bed. Gaff & Jaime got the bunks. And while I truly feel for the awkwardness of having to share a romantic weekend getaway on different levels of bedding, I must admit that after seeing the room, I was infinitely less scared of Gaff’s earlier proclamation of “I call top!” No bald eagles in their room though.
The rest of the evening is not much to write home (or blog) about: we all showered (separately…sorry folks) and changed and went out to dinner at some local family restaurant with a menu full of steak and the leanest salad bar ever created. It looked like the fixin’s bar at Baja Fresh ferchrissakes. I had more greenery on my baked potato than was on this salad bar. But I digress. I neglected to mention that Gaffey got a wicked sunburn in the morning and it was just really coming to fruition at this point, so he passed out a couple of times while we sat there. We returned to the Land of Eagles and my party crew was asleep by 10:00. I made a fire and enjoyed the serenity of nature. I was asleep by 10:30. Goddamn, we are old.
SUNDAY
At 7am I am awakened by the blare of my alarm clock…ok, that’s not true. I was awake before that. The fuckin’ curtains in the Bald Eagle Room are faux lace and porous, equivalent to hanging strands of shredded paper from a curtain rod. I’ve always been the type that needs real darkness to keep sleeping. No worries here, as the dawn’s first light had me up-and-at-‘em far before the alarm went off. Apparently the Bunk Twins next door were awake early too, as I heard them rummaging around before the alarm sounded as well. H, as usual, needed to be woken up with a bullhorn.
Regardless of our early start, we managed to get to the hill a bit late, thanks to an ill-fated stop at the local Vons for a banana breakfast and Gaff’s battle with the automated teller machine machine. Hustling up, oh, say, eighty five thousand flights of stairs to the lockers where we stored our gear, Jaime and I were frantic that we would miss our 9:45 appointment with Suzie Q and thus be cast back into the pool of the instructorless. Thankfully, everyone else’s schedule seemed to run on mañana time as well, so we met up with Suzie and Erin (the old gang!).
I realize now that this account has passed the six-page mark and has reached the point of oversaturation with skiing minutiae (not to mention that some of my snarky comments are beginning to repeat themselves). In the interest of time and my own sanity (and because I really wanna go in my boss’ office and watch some basketball, I will dispense with the blow-by-blow account of Sunday and focus on two of the more important instances of the day.
IMPORTANT INSTANCE #1: MY ADVENTURES ON SUICIDE RUN
After another enjoyable and surprisingly uneventful morning lesson with Suzie Q, Jaime and I joined the Bobsie twins for lunch at the lodge (ah, chili fries…the lunch of champions) and somehow got talked into an afternoon adventure: we would try our luck on an actual ski slope, the lackluster named Summit Run. That’s right. With a mere six hours of actual ski time, Jaime and I agreed to take a ride to the TOP OF THE FRICKING MOUNTAIN! In a CHAIR! And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, we then were expected to SKI DOWN IT! ON SKIS!!!
The chairlift ride, in my opinion, was one of the highlights of the trip. Just a slow, steady ride through relative wilderness, the wind whipping through your hair and your feet dangling in the breeze. I took a deep breath and felt at one with nature. We ate M&Ms. Jaime dug her fingernails into Gaff’s arm until she drew blood. Good times.
We reached the top of the mountain and had some snowboarder chick take our picture with the mountains in the background. Then we took her picture with the ski lift in the background. Different strokes, I guess. Then it was time to head to the slope.
I really can’t do justice to the feelings I had as I came to the crest of the hill. Excitement? No. Anticipation? Nope. Panic? Warmer. Suffice it to say I was COMPLETELY underprepared for what lay ahead of me. The difference in grade between the beginners hill (OK, fine, the Bunny Slope…happy?) and this, the easiest of the “real” hills, was night and fuckin’ day. The next half hour was a blur of kicked up slush, fast approaching precipices and snot-nosed brats whizzing by at mach 12. I’m not sure how long the run was, but I can easily estimate that I was completely out of control (i.e. up on one ski, poles flailing, eyes bulged and, at times, screaming like a schoolgirl) for about 97% of the time. The other 3%, I was lying flat on my back, wishing for God to manufacture and avalanche that would end my embarrassment, or staring daggers at H, who seemed to be enjoying herself swooshing hither and thither in her snow bunny garb. “Go ahead and swoosh,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll have my revenge on the ride home.” I had no idea how right I would be (more on that soon).
Needless to say, I DID make it to the bottom of the mountain, upright and not too much worse for wear. I wish I could say the same for Gaffey. No, he didn’t get hurt or anything, but I can’t imagine carrying someone else’s skis down the mountain while they walk behind was very enjoyable. The funny thing is, the entire time I was careening down the slope, I was looking back up the hill at Jaime’s remarkably steady, albeit slow, progress down the hill. She took to heart every lesson that Suzie showed us, from slowing down to turning to getting skis parallel to the hill—everything—and yet she still couldn’t make it to the end. Whereas I skied like a man on fire and made it to the bottom of the hill unscathed in spite of myself. This lesson led me to two conclusions:
1. Jaime is a better skier than she gives herself credit for; and
2. Skiing is the easily the most retarded activity I’ve ever done in my life.
And speaking of retards, let’s move along to…
IMPORTANT INSTANCE #2: MR. BEN’S WILD RIDE
So we pack up the car, change our clothes and get on the road. I hope to start our drive home before dark, but the way the setting sun glared into my eyes, it seemed a stop for dinner at Señor Hog’s (I can’t make shit like that up) before the journey was a good idea. I was so fucking wrong.
By the time we started our descent, the goddamn Marine Layer had returned. And this time it was personal. The windy mountain roads that seemed a challenge just the morning before had become the instruments of my imminent doom. I felt as though I was driving through soup. I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. I actually visualized missing a curve and had the thought “mebbe I’ll just be paralyzed” go through my mind. NOT good times. And that was BEFORE the rockslide.
Y’know when you’re on those windy mountain roads and you see the signs that say “Danger: Rock Slide” and you’re like “yeah, yeah, rock slide, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Well I fuckin’ saw it. H saw and Jaime saw it too. Gaff didn’t see shit ‘cause he was passed out again. Or maybe he was just pretending in order to hide his panic. With a sheer wall to our right and a double yellow line and the great beyond to our left, a small boulder (or, if you prefer, a “rock”) slid down the side of the mountain and into the side of the car. I panicked. OK, I didn’t run the car off the road or anything, but I did almost throw up my HEART, so there’s that. This was, without a doubt, the worst driving conditions I’ve ever encountered I honestly can’t emphasize it enough. I thought we were dead.
And then, as quickly as it came, it dissipated.
And then it came back again, for another half an hour of driving hell. I stayed glued to the red lights emanating from the minivan in front of me. When the minivan turned off the road, I stayed glued to the yellow line. I crouched over the steering wheel like an 80-year old at the farmer’s market. Bad fuckin’ times.
But yet, here I am. Alive. And in one piece. And thankful for the gods of snow and fog for sparing me. Oh, ye gods of snow and fog, never again shall I tempt you with my cries of “Skiing is for pussies!” or “We can leave whenever, I don’t mind driving!” I have served my penance and I beg for your divine forgiveness! Release me from this purgatory, I beseech thee!!!
Sigh.
So, anyone wanna go skiing?
posted by bd @ 3/18/2005 06:07:00 PM
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