Why Don't I Ski? --Good Question, Stupid Answer

Mt. Shasta 1960 Snow Gear

People are often incredulous when they learn that I’m from Utah yet I am not a lifetime, avid skier.

The fact is that in the day when I was learning to ski, ski clothes were not made with space-age fabric and insulation, but with good old crap that got wet, froze and was miserable to move in. Most of the day on the slopes was was spent standing in front of the huge lodge fireplace trying to get warm and meet cute guys, in that order. 

There were no lovely ski lifts either that I remember.  There was the “T”-bar that  was a suspended track with a chain hanging from above that dragged you with a bar that you willingly caught between your legs that froze to your butt and which was dicey to get loose from at the top of the hill.  

We would often ride to the canyons and back in the back of a pickup truck buried under piles of blankets laughing ourselves silly, miserable as you can imagine, hauling along food, good and bad cheer, and wondering what we had gotten ourselves into again.

We would generally rent our skis, but one day, I broached the possibility of buying some.   So Dad  excitedly hustled to the basement and and brought out  his vintage laminated wood skis that were tall enough to reach his wrist  as he reached his arm up as far as he could.   I wanted to cry.  He thought we’d probably want to replace the old, crusty, dried-up leather bindings.

When my other brothers and I griped the Christmas baby-brother, Rex got his season pass, skis, boots, bindings, and full ski outfit, mother simply said  "You had each other.  Rex had no one."

Of all the stupid things that all parents have ever said, and we all must confess that we’ve said stupid things, in my humble estimation, that is the stupidest that a parent has ever uttered with a straight face. I love you, Mother, but you cannot ever make me take that back.