Open Passports

Last weekend we:

went backcountry skiing. It was the first time I’ve been and…

I LOVED it!

I loved it, even though I had to use Jesse’s old massive skis and even though the bindings didn’t exactly fit my boots.

Our friends Tim and Cameron showed us Berthoud Pass near Winter Park. Berthoud used to be a ski resort, so it was perfect for me, someone who can sometimes be a little terrified to try new things-particularly when they involve cliffs, trees, and steep grades! But it was pretty good for Jesse too, who likes all of those things, especially in combination. There were different runs for both of us and Cameron and Tim brought their three dogs-so it slowed Cameron down a bit to my level-which is wayyyy below her level.

I have been quietly dreading the suggestion of backcountry skiing for a few years, mostly because I hate snowshoeing. I think it’s the worst-probably because I’m not doing it right, but even so. My feet are always sinking in the snow, they’re heavy, clunky, and they move around every time I lift my leg. I feel slightly terrible about this snowshoe hatred because for one of our first Christmases together Jesse bought me a brand new set and I’ve probably used them five times. Now I know the amazingness of ski skins-no sinking, no clunking, and once you get up a big hill you can ski back down it-so much better than the snowshoe!

All the skiing we’ve been doing lately made me think about our trip to Muju in South Korea last year….the place where I got in a fight with a fence… and the fence won…and ski patrol had to help untangle me…and I looked like such an idiot. Yup, that trip. Aside from that minor traumatic event, however, it was a great experience!

The fence story went something like this: a few great runs in the morning, sunny day, lunch, and then Jesse yelled something like “let’s go down this psychotically steep and icy hill on rented skis!” I followed him towards the hill-the black diamonds on the sign resonating.  We got to the top of the hill and it was glistening  it was so icy. Jesse took off, totally fine all the way, but every time he turned I could hear “scrape, scrape, sccrrraapppeeee.” Ice. In what felt like the seven hours I stood there deciding whether or not to go, several other skiers went down. Every. single. one. fell. And then slid down the entire hill despite repeated attempts to stop themselves. I tried to turn around and ski back up so I could take another run, but it wasn’t happening. So, I turned around, waited for what felt like another seven hours and with extreme hesitancy pushed my poles into the snow. I immediately regretted this decision. I made a wide, slippery, wobbly legged turn and started heading for a closed off run with a bright orange plastic caution fence. I tried to turn again, but it was so icy my skis were really just sliding sideways down the hill and I was propelled forward-with my body sliding right into the fence and my legs and skis in some deep snow on the other side of the fence, pretty much buried. Every time I tried to move to untangle myself my body would slide a few inches and my legs were still stuck. Now, this fence was not exactly sturdy, it was just a temporary fence to warn and prevent skiers from getting to the run on the other side of it. It was held down by a couple of plastic posts and every time I moved, they swayed, unsteady and ready to pull out of the snow and send me sliding at top speeds, wrapped in an orange mess back down to the base of the mountain. Not even a little bit of an exaggeration. After about twenty minutes of me screaming gently reminding my lovely husband that I hate the combination of ice and skiing, ski patrol swooshed over to my rescue. As a note, Jesse offered many times to walk back up the icy slab of death to assist me, but I refused, like a calm adult and in no way would have ever dreamt of even uttering the words “I can do it myself!!” At least that’s the story I’m sticking to. So the poor young ski patrol man helped me take my skis off and remove my legs from from the fence and snow and then kindly helped me to carry my skis and poles to the bottom, where there was a slightly mortified husband… And that is one of my most horrific ski stories. Next in ski terror stories will be the time I fell off the chairlift. Just call me Lindsey Vonn…

And, finally, what would a ski trip be without some amazing and very on trend fashion?