I learned to ski at Alta. That says so much.... but I'll say a little more about this resort located at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, a handful of miles South East of Salt Lake City.
I wasn't allowed to ski until I was capable of doing it without any parental assistance. My dad was adamantly opposed to skiing, and has always said that, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." and there was no way he would be party to that, but he did allow me the freedom to go skiing, as long as he had nothing to do with it. So, when I turned sixteen, I could drive myself to the ski areas, but I didn't own any ski equipment. Fortunately, I had a friend who could help me with that. Merlin had been skiing for several years already. He rented his equipment from Tooele Army Depot. Since both his parents worked there, he could rent all his gear for five bucks. Neither of my parents worked at the Depot, but not to worry... Merlin's mother decided to adopt me... so to speak. She claimed me as her son, and I was issued a photo ID with my new claimed surname. Perfect! Now I could ski cheap. There was a large assortment of the newest and best skis to choose from, which afforded an opportunity to rent a different brand every week, and test a variety of equipment. We even obtained coupons for half-off lift tickets there. Good old government excess.
My first time
It was twilight as I began loading my skis, poles, and boots into the back of my dad's red and white Chevy pickup, still surprised that he had allowed me to drive his truck to a ski resort. I was glad. I started the engine and allowed it to warm up as I brushed off about an inch of light fluffy snow. The powdery whiteness easily brushed away like feathers. I brushed off a bit of the feathery substance from the red and black Indian-rug style seat cover, and scooted my rear end into driving position. I picked up Merlin and Trujillo, and we were on our way. Looking westerly acrossTooele valley, I could see Deseret Peak illuminated by the first rays of the sun.
There were already gaggles of vehicles in the parking lot when we arrived. Alta! The majestic mountains towered over me. Somewhat intimidated by the spectacle, I put on my boots, which I had rehearsed at home. Then, fumbling with the awkward skis, I did my best to carry them like Merlin who made it look so easy. I could barely control my skis, and they weren't even on my feet yet. We made our way to the ticket booth, and presented the cashier with coupons and cash. In return, she gave us our passes, a bell shaped wire, and a sticker. I watched Merlin thread his wire through a zipper loop on his coat, then peel and fold the sticker in half over the wire. He made it look easy, like he had done it a thousand times. I did my best to emulate his performance, but mine didn't look nearly as neat . My fold didn't match up perfectly, therefore sticky portions of my pass were exposed around the edges, and had to be folded over in an visually untidy manner. But that was the least of my worries. Now it was time to strap on the skis.
I had grown up embracing winter and was no stranger to snow dynamics. I had plunged down steep hillsides on inner-tubes, sleds, and Snerfers. I had hooky-bobbed behind automobiles, bikes, motorcycles, snowmobiles, etc. Nothing prepared me for the experience of strapping boards to my feet and flying down a mountain. When I finally locked in, (which was no easy task), it was worse than learning how to walk all over again. I knew how to walk, but those rules no longer applied. I pushed myself along with my poles, my arms doing 99.97% of the work, (there was a slight breeze), and grabbed hold of the tow rope. I grappled with the cumbersome contraption, and steadily maintained balance as it pulled me across the base of the resort. Ahead, I could see that people were skating away from the tow, and then ascending what seemed like a steep grade which led to a lift. I still hadn't fallen down, and barely maintained balance as I slowly made my way up the grade. It was cold, but I was hot, sweaty and out of breath by the time I made it to the top. As we stood in the long line, I watched closely how the chair was being boarded. I stood sandwiched between Trujillo and Merlin and it was our turn to slide into position. As the chair ahead of us quickly hoisted two passengers away, we made our way to the red line where we were to wait for the chair to come around. It was there before I knew it and scooped us up into the air. As I peered about the canyon from my perch high above the slope, I beheld a beautifully sculpted snowy landscape. Branches of fir trees were weighted by snow as skiers made their way proficiently down the mountain. They made it look so easy. I figured that if all these people could do it, surely I could. After all, I was a natural born athlete capable of incredible things.
Ahead I could see the top of the lift. Merlin instructed me to keep the tips of the skis pointed up as we approached the exit station. I hadn't been afforded the opportunity to observe others exiting, so I was basically on my own to figure it out as the snowy ground met the slick undersides of my skis. Merlin turned away to the left, and Trujillo to the right as I continued straight ahead and came to a stop without falling.
"OK, what do I do now?" I asked, hoping for some expert instruction. "You just ski" Merlin proclaimed. Then he turned and began skiing down the mountain, swooshing back and forth and finally fading into the plethora of proficient skiers. Trujillo was soon gone in like manner, and I was on my own to learn how to ski. I stood motionless pondering the techniques of the others around me. Small children scooted past me skiing away effortlessly. Before me was an incredibly steep slippery slope, and an excessive amount of gravity. It looked so easy, and I hadn't fallen yet, but that was about to change. Down the mountain I plunged with barely any knowledge of how to turn the planks attached to my feet. Knowing I would die, or worse, break my leg, I fell over and tumbled to a stop. One ski had detached from the boot in the fall, so after getting back on my feet, I struggled for a few minutes to click the boot into the binding. Then I was off again, this time, out of control, I lost balance and began to fall over onto my left side. Naturally, I attempted to catch myself with my right leg, but the attached ski prevented the move and I tripped and fell spectacularly. My knee hurt terribly, and in my head I could her my Dad saying, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." Fortunately, it wasn't broken, but had been twisted unnaturally, and hurt quite badly. But it didn't stop me from trying again. I spent most of the rest of the morning learning how to fall and get back up again. We met up at the truck for lunch. Merlin had a peanut-butter-pickle-banana-tuna sandwich, and Gatorade. After washing down my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of Lay's potato chips with an ice cold Coca Cola, we returned to the slopes, and by the end of the day, battered and bruised, I could ski.
