MOUNTAIN (Mid)LIFE
M and I are currently reinventing our Empty Nester selves as remixes of our teenaged selves. This is manifesting in a yearlong tour of adventure destinations, where M revives to his pro-level muscle memory of any given sport, and I recall that I don't know how to do any of these things.[1]
Currently we are encamped on a mountain that has the highest vertical drop in North America. This is a place where the clouds are below you. This is a place that employs avalanche sniffer dogs. This is a place where everyone wears whistles on their jackets, for reasons I am afraid to ask. This is a place where skiing 100 days in a single season is a reasonable goal.[2] This is a place that proves that not all Black Diamond runs are created equal, or more importantly, not all Green Circle runs are. This is a place where people ski from when they are in baby diapers, to when they are in adult diapers. Here people are born to ski, and who hope their obituaries read “they died doing what they loved” (You got it…ski). This is a place where “Ski-fluencer” is a viable occupation. This is a Bermuda triangle place where every resident you meet says some variation of “I came here for two weeks, 10 or 20 or 30 years ago and never left.”
To get to the top of the mountain, it takes three lift rides. Our first day here, we were introduced to a cross section of the local population. We rode up the first gondola with two young Aussie expats and their baby. Not their small child. They’re BABY, who despite being too young to walk was being taken to ski lessons at an elevation of 6,000 feet. On the next gondola ride we encounter a resident YouTuber who was on his way to do a “Hundred-Footer” which he proclaimed to be “So easy…if you are me”. His Go Pro is duck taped to his helmet. In fact, his whole helmet is duck taped together. I am pretty sure it is no longer certified. He offers some sage insights - you know, like, “a meter of snow is so much more better than 4 cms”. Indeed. On the third lift, which cuts through the clouds and emerges into a blue bird day at the top of the world, we ride with an Octogenarian. Upon disembarking, he cheerios: “Go fast and take chances!”.
Taking this ski/life advice to heart, we (read: M) laugh (BAH-HA-HA!) in the face of the perfectly groomed trails and opt instead for a bracing “warm up” on a run called Vertical Ridge (short for Vertical-Trees-Cliffs-Ridge). For the next run? Time to hike into the back bowls, of course! We take off our skis and start walking into the great unknown on what is called “The Lemming Line”. As I trudge along, many not entirely reassuring thoughts are running through my head. Foremost, is that a Lemming is defined as a person who blindly follows others toward potential catastrophe. I am lacking a degree of faith in the people I am blindly following, namely M and our friend RB. I am putting myself in the hands of two self-described members of the ‘Feral Generation’, and not incidentally two of the culprits from the Student Job Fiasco.[3] Also, I know both not enough, and too much, about what lies ahead of. For example, I know that somewhere in the direction we are heading is a run called “Mister Brown Shorts”. I do not want to be doing, or be anywhere near, any kind of shorts-browning. Thank you very much.
I am also reminded of the 1990s PC game “Lemmings” which required you to apply skills to address challenges. If you failed, your team of lemmings, all dumbly following along in your wake, would invariably plummet off a cliff into an abyss. Game Over. My Lemming Leaders are bantering on about “trenching", and “smearing", and "spreading butter" and “cranking up the DINS". I don't know what any of this means.[4] Part of me is flattered by their totally baseless belief in my mad skills. The other part is taking this poorly timed moment to assess those skills. As I wrote about in Life as a Yeti, I got off to a dubious start with this sport. At this point in my life, I am unclear on where I lie on the skill ranking system, where 1 = Pizza Slice and 10 = Base Jumping. I am guessing about a 3...or whatever number is above a “Stem Christie”. (Note: A Stem Christie is something you would only know about if you took the Instructors Level 1 course. A course that I, not incidentally, failed).
The real problem when you are a Lemming, is that you often don’t know what you don’t know. I have discovered firsthand that you can often Fake It ‘til You Make It (-ISH) in business, in parenting, in creative projects.[5] But faking it down a mountain? What if I am like S, age 4, when she told M that she “knew how to ski now and didn't need any help”. She was so convincing that he released her at the top of the hill - only to watch her go full tilt, straight down, directly at the tree line. She was snatched from an early demise, like a golden Quidditch snitch, by a dive-bombing D who fortunately had a much higher Velocity = Momentum/Mass Ratio. Also, as part of my skills assessment, I am doing some ski-parent math. Skiing having lost out in the Great Canadian Hockey v. Skiing divide, I have only skied an average of 4 or 5 days a year for the past two decades.
Plus, a Ski Day and a Ski-Parent Day are two very different math equations. A ski parent day starts with addition: 5 jackets, 5 helmets, 5 googles, 5 snow pants, 5 under layers, 5 neck warmers, 10 ski socks, 10 skis, 10 poles, 10 mitts, 1 mega pack of hand warmers, and 2 sleds to pull all the gear and the children who are so layered up they can’t walk. SUM total of items that could (/will) fail to make it successfully to the hill = 73.
Once at the hill, the ski-parent math becomes one of percentages. Your time will break down as follows:
10% trying to fish equipment out of the car coffin, which, if you are short like me, is an acrobatic feat performed without being able to see anything.
10% putting on, taking off, putting on, taking off, putting on, taking off…aforementioned pieces of clothing and equipment.
10% setting out the healthy lunch you somehow packed while collecting the 73 required ski day items, which is ignored in favour of hot chocolate [6]
10% cleaning up hot chocolate.
25% orchestrating pee breaks necessitated by the hot chocolate.
10% riding up interminably slow magic carpets, rope tows and POMA lifts.
10% doing release and catch on the bunny hill.
10% acting as tail guide / sweep / pick up sticks person.
10% dragging/pushing children over the flat areas on beginner hills comprised almost entirely of flat areas.
10% being a human shield running interference on all the Yahoos using your small, small children as human pylons.
10% showcasing proper French Fry technique.
SUM total of time spent actually skiing as a Ski Parent = NEGATIVE 25%
Back on the Lemming Line, it is dawning on me that I might be more than “just a little rusty”. Nevertheless, I am revving myself up to “Go Fast and Take Chances”. I am hyper aware of all the Go Pros on the hill and the fact that your approval is not needed to put footage of you on Jerry of the Day. After a successful (in so far as I didn't yard sale) “air turn” launch (which I am told is actually called a "hop turn”) I huff-n-puff my way down the bowl. It’s not pretty, but I am managing…until we get funnelled into a gully.
At one point I pass a woman who has fallen-and-can’t-get-up into a glacial creek under a rock overhang. Fortunately, RB stops to fish her out. If I had tried to unwedge her, we would have both needed rescuing. All I can think is that I probably would never have spoken to M again if that had been me. Further down, I encounter a dad who having followed his children under the pretence of looking after them, is now way behind. He looks at me forlornly and asks: “Are we in danger?”. What can I say? At this point, I have violated the cardinal rule of skiing: NFM - “Never Follow M”. So yes, there is a strong possibility that we are in danger. As with parenting, I try to help by leading by example - in this case showing there is no shame in side-stepping and bum-sliding. These are skills I have down pat. An hour and a half later we emerge back at the lift. I am drenched in sweat - both from fear and exertion. I need to lie down. M meanwhile is talking about going over to the Nordic centre for some XC so that he can “get some cardio”.
Now a month in, I am doing better at following the fast-moving, chance-taking, ski-bum (correction, “ski enthusiast”) Grampa’s advice. I am more of a "Go Slow to Go Fast" adherent and I am still a Lemming. But hopefully I am more like the Lemming Leaders in the game - the ones who employ skills, creative thinking, and hard work to overcome obstacles (and save their friends from falling off cliffs). On the chances side, I am not a risk taker. That’s M’s side of the Yin/Yang. But I am all for exploring opportunities. I prefer to define “chances" as “fortuitous occurrences”. This place is definitely a fortuitous opportunity. I may not have been born to ski, but I think maybe I can be reborn in this idyllic mountain oasis. In our remix “era”, we have decided to stay - just like our twenty something selves probably would have if we had come here in the 90s. You’ll find me “trenching” … over on the groomers.
From the Lemming Life, I bid you all: “Go Fast and Take Chances”.
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[1] I will pre-emptively answer M’s question: “No, this is not another story about you being good at sports and me being bad at them.” Not totally, anyways.
[2] My goal? 100 runs…per decade.
[3] When doing a remix of our teenaged selves, we maybe should have taken a moment to remember what those teenagers were like. Feral Generation is a Trademark of RB, as is NFM. RB shares my penchant for branding and acronyms. And puns. (#peasinapod / P.I.A.P / Give Peas a Chance).
[4] The DIN setting is calculated based on your boot sole length, age, weight, height, your ability level when your bindings are mounted on your skis and the gnarly-ness of the terrain you are about to undertake. The DIN setting is something I have never/will never have any cause to adjust.
[5] This blog is a case in point.
[6] The hot chocolate being only reason the kids were willing to come skiing in the first place.