Snow Child

Photo: Sophia, Terror of the Slopes (photo by Lisa D'Arrigo)

The absurdity of having a gold pass in an epic snow year and not once using it was bordering on therapy-worthy psychosis. The excuses were valid and numerous – no time with 3 jobs, I was still wearing balance-warping glasses that fogged up at every turn and didn't want to sacrifice any more hard earned wages on prescription goggles or sunglasses when lasek surgery was only a few weeks away, and somehow every rare day I had off seemed to blow in 25 below weather with raging cyclone winds.

Like stage fright, I was having anxiety attacks about both skiing and not skiing. Besides, I'm not an accomplished alpine skier. Admittedly, I really just like to don the ipod with kicking tunes blasting as loud as the equivalent of a stack of old Marshall amps – avoiding bumps, difficult terrain and bad weather, in contrast to almost all of my friends, and dance down the intermediate blue groomers. I stop at least a dozen or more times to gaze in awe at the clouds and sharply edged vertical whiteness against brilliant blue sky, gasping at views that require me to squeal, “Damn, I live in Paradise.”

So it was that my editor, realizing my neurosis, finally command nudged me, “Sophia and I are going skiing Friday. You should come. She goes slow but can ski blues so you'll be fine.” Sophia... another 5-year old Crested Buttian who's been on tiny boards since she could crawl and can “pizza” through the expert only Teocalli Bowl and back while you were still scoping out your line. I made the mistake the first year I returned to skiing, after a 20-year hiatus from the Butte, in asking a 6-year old local friend if she wanted to ski with me.
“So Taylor, where did you ski today?” I smiled as she got on the town bus.
“The glades,” her tiny voice responded. Watching the color drain from my face at the thought of skiing a double black diamond run through thick trees she laughed and added, “Don't worry, it's easy... all you do is plant, turn, scream.” At that moment, I knew I was way out of my league and dropped the ski buddy request for both our sakes.

Local kids are fearless. They have no concept of what gravity and speed can do to an adult body because as little cannon balls, compact and close to the ground, falling doesn't have as much of an impact. They learn about skiing in their young lives before they can utter a word – at 1 month they're in baby packs on their parents' backs, bumping down the steeps of Jokerville run and laughing like it's bouncing on mom's knee. By the time they're out of diapers they're wedging down the 5-foot moguls of Resurrection like little stuffed dolls on 2 sticks. It's as natural as breathing. So it's no wonder that by the time they’re in their pre-teens they can deftly huck themselves off cliffs at warp speed and compete in the World Extremes Competitions.

Friday morning skies were bluebird and the air was warm – at least above 20 degrees – tropical in comparison to previous weeks of sub arctic spells. It would be like a day at the beach on the slopes.
“Can we ski the glades?” the miniscule Sophia asked excitedly after patiently tolerating a couple of muscle reminder warm-up runs down Paradise for me.
“How about Painter Boy and we go for hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream?” I coyly offered, hoping to intentionally sidetrack the whippersnapper.

The next day dawned as bright and clear as the day before. I lay in bed, muscles in a fever, not surprisingly having been thoroughly out-skiied by a 5-year old snow princess. I determined hair of the dog would be the appropriate fix – as soon as I could drag my pounded inner skeletal out of bed.

Not a child in sight to have to compete with or justify my whimpiness to, I glided down my favorite runs, soaking up the scenery and the long absent glorious sun, savoring each moment of solo girlie geezer skiing.