Downhill Daze

How many times have we heard, “When you grow up I just hope and pray you have children exactly like you.”  Well it can happen just that way.  The little skiers from this ’82 column are now parents with snowboarders and schussboomers of their own.  One of the highlights of any ski day is watching them get their brood out the door and on the hill. 

Downhill Daze 

February 21, 1982 

When it comes to memorable quotes, Coloradoans haven’t a chance.  Teddy Roosevelt is immortalized for leading his Roughriders up San Juan Hill bellowing, “Shoot low, they’re riding Shetlands,” or some such nonsense, Patrick Henry garnered himself space in every elementary history book for time immemorial with “Give me liberty or give me death.” 

But the average resident of our Mile High State, with even a minimum tenure of but one winter, is condemned to traipse through life muttering nothing more memorable than “skis, boots and poles.”  Winter is here and with it comes the number one cause of divorce, child abuse and coronary occlusions in the Rocky Mountain West—the Sunday family ski outing. 

Saturday evening usually ends with all family members agreeing to “sleep in” Sunday morning.  After a leisurely breakfast we’ll then load the car for the 45-minute ski trip.  Years of Sunday mornings filled with the dawn-shattering noise of a clock radio that enabled the family to report, on time, for the Buddy Werner Ski League roll call have given most members of clan Maynard a deep appreciation for a leisurely Sabbath snooze. 

Somewhere between bedtime and 6:30 a.m., however the 6 year old always seems to change her vote.  The hour finds her shaking my shoulder and announcing to the sleeping multitude she is up, dressed and ready for skiing.  So much for consensus.  While the youngest heads back to her room drying tears after a predawn tongue-lashing, mother and father grudgingly begin preparations for our trip to the Mesa. 

Mom fixes the lunch, asking herself is anything is more unappetizing at 6:45 a.m. than turkey loaf sandwiches. 

Meanwhile, father heads for the garage, the car and the ski rack muttering the now familiar, “Skis, boots and poles.” 

The junior-high-schooler begins meticulous preparations for the “just right” hairstyle while the fifth-grader refuses to get out of bed.  The first grader, afraid her early morning faux pas will cause her to be left behind, takes up residence in the rear of the station wagon, asking anyone stumbling by in the predawn light, “Are we about ready to leave yet?” 

One hour later breakfast is on the table.  Parents have showered and dressed.  The middle child is mad because she wants pancakes, not a bowl of Dinky Donuts.  The eldest is telling the world not to bug her.  She’ll get dressed “in just a sec.”  And the youngest has taken up residence, shivering, in the middle of the kitchen floor, after freezing for an hour in the rear of the car. 

Finally, to the refrain of the now familiar-“Does everyone have their skis, boots and poles?”-We get under way.  But 200 yards later a glance at the gas gauge reveals we’re not going anywhere without first stopping for fuel.  The three irrefutable laws of skiing are:

1.       Keep your weight on the downhill ski;

2.       98 percent of all women look super in ski pants;

3.       It is impossible to get to and from any ski area without first stopping at a gas station. 

The petrol problem remedied, we roll out of the gas station after first doing a Simon Legree impersonation by refusing to buy Snickers, Twinkies, or licorice with a heartfelt, ”If you’d get up in time to eat breakfast you wouldn’t want any of that garp at this hour of the morning.” 

Just before turning onto I-70, the fifth-grader informs us she forgot her gloves.  “How can you forget gloves?” is the immediate reply.  “You only asked about skis, boots and poles.” 

Finally after more attempts to depart than a Cape Canaveral space shot, we motor past the Palisade turn off.  The first- grader inquires, “Are we almost there yet?”  Assured the ski area is but half an hour away, she waits at least two minutes before repeating the question. 

Finally, we arrive.  Once in the parking area my car instinctively heads for the bowels of Parking Lot 3, as far from the lodge as is humanly possible.  The only people, I’m convinced, who get to park in Lots 1 and 2, are those who leave Grand Junction at midnight Saturday.  And their number seems to be legion. 

Boots are buckled, left tickets purchased and then, as if it were an illusion performed by Doug Henning on national TV, the older two disappear, to return at 4 o’clock.  Something about skiing being a lot more fun when you do it with your friends. 

The littlest angel requires more attention.  After much grunting and groaning attempting to attach her skis to boots, one of two things occurs.  She either (a) has to go to the bathroom or (b) announces she is tired and wants to go home.  Occasionally her requests include all of the above. 

Only the inexperienced parent believes that once the skiing starts, life returns to normal.  The family still has to make it home. 

Again, at the end of the day, it’s “Skis, boots and poles.” 

Once the car is onto the highway there’s the problem of being confronted by the Mesa General Store, “Everyone else gets to stop for candy, what can’t we?” 

In the event we make it through Mesa without pause a voice from the back will announce a parka was left at the ski area.  Back to Powderhorn we go. 

One diminutive blonde will then ask if we can go skiing next Sunday.  Another will offer she has a friend who gets to go on both Saturday and Sunday and why can’t we?  But the tiniest towhead remains consistent.  Like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn, she inquires, “Are we almost there?”