Two Weekends of Ski

You’d think after 5 years of living in Utah, I’d have caught on. But some of us are slow learners. Not long ago, my favorite thing to do with snow was shake my fist at it angrily, yelling obscenities. Things have changed. We’re buddies now, the snow and I.


Two days of cross country certainly has helped our relationship. A few friends and I trekked up into the Uinta mountains, along the border of Wyoming and Utah. We spent most the day pushing ourselves and some equipment sleds along a powdery trail until we reached a cabin tucked into the trees. The snow was deeper than I’ve ever seen it. We had to dig a trail up to the front door, and then another trail, several feet deep, to the outhouse. Let me tell you, if there’s one thing I admire about my gender, it’s the ability to pee standing up. Sorry girls. Mother Nature hates you.


With the help of the stove, we got the cabin from 10 below to 65 Fahrenheit. There’s nothing cozier than a cabin in the woods. I slept great, and the trek back, with shafts of morning spilling through the foliage, was just surreal.

Two days later, I tried downhill. My good friend Jean was visiting from California and had also never skied before. We learned quickly that downhill skiing, like most things, has a learning curve. At first, all I could think was, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.” Then, as I figured out how to slow down, I grew a bit less fearful. “This is fun,” I thought, as I flew down the hill. “But surely it can only end in death.”

It wasn’t until the following weekend, when I was back at the same resort for night skiing with some college roommates, that I started to really get the hang of it. And now I’m hooked. In fact, Jean is flying back in a couple weeks and we’re going to give it another go. Plenty of time for all my bruises to heal.