Skifolk

Skifolk
January 15 - 27, 2002
With planks attached to your feet, it's fun to rush downhill

One of advantages of California is a great choice of natural sceneries -- ocean, mountains, forests, lakes, deserts -- all that is just a question of how far we're willing to drive. Already last year Martin and Sid attempted to talk me into skiing, but it somehow did not happen. I did not regret it -- all my previous encounters with downhill skiing took place in deep totality (mostly as part of mandatory ski training classes at various schools), and they consisted of:

skis with safety bands (those laces you tie around you ankles -- especially impressive during head-over-heels falls, when ski bindings let go and skis would repeatedly bang you over your head)
ski boots that would not fit, and they would squeeze and strangle, and they would have thousands of buckles that collect snow and freeze solid -- you can take down the boots only after melting away all that crust
ski lifts (the you-hook-your-own-anchor kind, and the pole-between-your-legs kind), that are rideable only to selected few experienced rodeo stuntmen.
frequent non-operation of above mentioned ski lifts, which results in never-ending uphil marching (we're here on a ski training and we have to ski despite hell freezing over)
minimum twenty minute queues for the ski lifts (that is, those few that operate), where somebody always skip to the front, on "important" grounds that they are local, they know the lift operator, they belong to that group over there, they are advanced skiers, or they have better equipment...
a convenient lodging at least two miles away from the slope -- a distance to be marched twice a day wearing ski boots, carrying skis, poles, and all other necessities in a backpack or in pockets (money, toilet paper, spare gloves, drinks...)
an absolute absence of bathrooms - I could either perform a number suitable for the famous Houdini, somewhere in a forest corner, or I would, with snow reaching up to my thighs, attempt to disentangle out of all my clothing, while not dropping any gloves, skis, poles, goggles, hat, most contents of my pockets; in the end, I was simply glad not to wet any of the above mentioned things.
if the location offered some form of bathroom, it required cooperation of multiple people -- someone must watch skis lest they get stolen!
refreshment boots, which presented me with all the above mentioned complications together -- rarely open, always with a long queue (and a high altitude surcharge), looking for small change with your gloves on, watching the skis at all times...
downhill choice between ice and rocks (especially suitable for beginners, is it not?) -- that is, if there was snow at all
my fellow downhill skiers, who would mercilessly sweep away anyone who would, even for a moment, stop on the slope -- or, God forbid, has fallen down. Such offender is to be yelled at, to get out of the way, eventually his/her skis (legs, arms, hands, poles) are to be ran over, hissing: "Get outta here, stupid, if you can't ski!!!"

Yet I have to admit that if you overcome all those troubles and disregard all the small woes, one can be rewarded by a view to a snowed-over hills (the more pleasant if it happens instead of being held in a classroom). One can possibly have a sensation of freedom, and enjoy mastering those devillish planks. I was still, however, harboring an opinion that all these good things cannot outweigh all the cost (not mentioning damage to my nerves).



	Kirkwoodu Panorama All three pictures on this page were provided courtesy of Vana family. We have only managed to admire this beautiful landscape.

The other day I visited my dentist, where a talkative nurse told me that since I am Czech, I must be a superb skier, for she knows a Czech family where everybody skis -- daddy, mommy, and both boys. It took me a moment to realize that Martin's family sees the same dentist. To proudly defend colors of my old homeland, I had no other choice but to conspire Martin (who happens to be a skiing instructor) into spending one of his afternoons on the slope with me, revealing the secrets of downhill skiing. With a fifteen years of abstinence, I was not ready to hope that I could stand on my skis, and go. I did not feel that those school classes left any noticeable traces on me.

I know that you won't be surprised if I tell you that on January 12, we were leaving towards Kirkwood by 9:45 a.m., with the idea that "we'll have enough of it by the evening anyway". We met Martin in front of a rental office at two as agreed -- Sid made sure and even contacted him with a handheld radio. Let me explain -- Herodes Martin stuffed his whole family into his car already at 3 a.m., just to make it to the lifts by 8:30. When we arrived (well fed and well rested), Martin's whole sking day was practically over!

Thus my fate was sealed -- I still kept on hoping that the rental place would be closed / they would not rent out for only half a day / they won't have my sizes / I could find another excuse for not being able to ski today, therefore would be able to go to a nice warm bar and read my Lord of the Rings there. Not a chance -- everything went like rehearsed, and suprisingly fast -- fill out this form, sign here, boots, skis -- this size, perhaps? what is your weight, I will set it up -- poles, thank you, have fun.



	Sid and myself at Kirkwood on this last picture of hers, Barbara managed to include not only us, but also a bizzare port-a-potty on a roof of a hotel. One cannot see clearly either, but it is the only record of our skiing trip we have.

There is no hassle with ski lifts at Kirkwood -- practically no queues. An operator pushes a seat under your butt, three skiers at a time. So there I was, riding up on an upholstered (not cold!!!) seat, with a strong caretaker (Sid and Martin) on each side. They pulled me down from the lift at top. By my request, we really found ourselves on a "kiddie training slope" -- obviously devoid of children (you must have also noticed that kids are undestructible and they gather all their skills, be it skiing or computers, with lightning speed). The slope even looked inviting -- so I let myself down on it. To my surprise, skiing felt like a game -- some things cannot be forgotten even after fifteen years.

I proudly advanced into the next level -- another lift, a harder slope -- and if I did not forget to jump off in the right moment, and did not have to fly two feet off the deparing seat, I would not have fallen properly on that day at all...
But I kept trying -- if you ever notice a skier on a slope that waves with her poles desperately in all directions, swerving from side to side, and rushes forward with a deadly stare in her eyes, be advised, it may be me. I had great fun, though, but the lifts stopped at four thirty -- and a mass exodus ensued. Cars were revving up their engines and inched spasmotically forward. It had made no sense to ruin out impression from a well spent afternoon -- we waved Martin's family goodbye and mixed ourselves among the "really rough" sports(wo)men at the nearest bar. Sports(wo)men generally excelled in rattling their ski boots, consuming beer, gaping a at football game on TV, and yelling loudly.

After one guiness, two teas and a dinner, the road outside the bar was empty and we headed home. We were turning our key right after Vana's, who left an hour earlier, but drove first thirty miles (of switchbacks) about thirty mph in a jam. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, whoever invented bars should get a Nobel Prize.

Skiing impressed me so much that right the next Sunday I took Sid out to a second-hand sports store, to buy my equipment. We found boots, not at all bad for for thirty dollars -- renting a complete set for half day cost $28. My boots have only one buckle, and they fit perfectly. We just could not decide about skis. A beat-up parabolic pair -- obviously a former rental gear -- were to be had for a hundred, straight ones went for half. Both Sid and Martin ride on straight (classical), used skis, those I rented were quite cut-out, but I was not sure if that would be any better to justify a double price.

Once again, Martin came to our rescue. As I said before, all family skis, and so he's got a stockpile of miscellaneous gear in "anticipation" of new needs. Among other things, he had bought (in a flea market) six dollar pair of skis for his little Matthew, once he "grows bigger" -- and he readily lent them out (poles included) to me to try out a straight pair and make my choice, which type suits me better.



	Kirkwood finally I received my share of real snow

I looked forward to check out my (almost complete) set on a slope, but I had to wait a fortnight, as Sid got called to work during a weekend.

We got up rather early on the following Sunday, and arrived to Kirkwood amidst a crazy traffic at about eleven o'clock. There were quite many of us, and we ended up performing the hated #6 activity - long distance marching with your skis to the slope. Though they have some shuttle trams that are supposed to distribute skiers back and forth along a long bow that constitutes the parking space, they probably could not handle this many folks. Fortunately, we were able to compensate by jumping on the nearest lift -- albeit after finding out that we left our discount vouchers at home, and buing full price tickets -- and traversing from one slope to another, taking a different lift up each time. Already during these side motions, I found a discrepancy in Martin's poles -- if I wanted to use them to shove myself forward, I had to bend down to my knees. They were apparently a wrong size and we hurried to rent another pair. At an advantage, for we managed to feed the rapidly fading Hippo in the same building, and made him operational for the rest of the afternoon.

I abandoned Martin's poles, stabbed in a snow bank in front of a lodge. During our previous visit here Sid locked our car, but left the passenger door wide open, with my digital camera and wallet inside. They stayed there all the time we sat at a bar. Hence I had no fear that somebody would feel tempted to steal an elderly pair of kid's poles. While eating, we easily left our skis outside (just like everybody else), and they survived just fine. True, my out-of-fashion planks with a colorful sign "Thrift Store $5.99", which I forgot to remove, don't look too attractive, but much better skis and snowboards were fearlessly parked in front of lodge.

Which reminds me of yet another thing - everybody at Kirkwood seems to ski for the fun of it -- on beginners' meadows just like on The Wall (a slope approaching vertical), people happily fall, stop, chat, swear (especially snowboarding beginners turned out to be a great source of unbelievably colourful English), and have fun, without any inhibition, disregarding how much their skis were, or how their fashion apparel goes with the color of their hat. Most skiers are dressed in the style, "if my grandma could wear this, we can't possibly throw it away" -- wearing old Sid's nylon combo (it's really only 20 inches longer than need), I could be mistaken for a fashion model -- that is, if anybody ever noticed these things there at all..

Having changed my poles, nothing could stop me from enjoying this wintertime romantic outing -- over a foot of new powder snow fell during a Saturday storm, and it was still snowing slightly -- snowy trees, houses, roads, then the skiing -- like in a down comforter. Temperature held just below freezing, the snow held beautifully, no wet cotton... I found out that, fashion or not, parabolic skis have the only advantage that they speed up in turns, which I personally consider a highly unwanted feature :-) (for now).

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