Despite the fact that I look upon my time in New York as not the best time of my life, there was a harshness about it that did help me later withstand some of life’s trials and tribulations. The people I hung out with there certainly did not cut me any slack. I went by the endearing name “Horton.” No one called me Mary. This is okay, really, even Al calls me Horton alot. So much for my idea of myself as a fair maiden. More like an elephant who never forgets, I guess.
I had never been skiing before so up we went to Gore Mountain in upstate New York. I remember looking up at the mountain as we drove up with and feeling a sense of exhiliration and panic. How would I ever go down that on skis? I have to laugh looking at the image above that I found. I’m a hip Tahoe skier now, Gore Mountain looks like a molehill! When I look at that photo really quickly, however, my stomach remembers the feeling of fear looking up at that mountain, those ski trails just straight down. Interesting how that feeling can return so many many years later.
My friends were all good skiers and I was pretty broke, so lessons were out of the question. After a non-lesson on the bunny hill, I was escorted up to the top of the mountain. I managed to make my way down. It was slow and not very pleasant. I hung in there, though, and the day which had started out gray and dark turned into the most beautiful possible spring skiing day ever. We were in t-shirts by the afternoon. I went home with a face peeling from sunburn, but it was worth it.
What turned the experience around for me was one of the guys, when I wobbled off the chair lift at the top for the fifth time, still nervous, just looked at me and said “Horton! Just pretend you’re dancing!” Now anyone who has seen me dance knows I am not very tense when I dance. I relax completely and let the music overtake me. David had keyed in on that and those words were like magic to me. The next thing I knew I was schussing down the hill with confidence and grace. Not bad for a beginner. The best part about learning to ski in New York Adirondack Mountains is that there wasn’t a whole lot of “powder.” It tends to be very icy. I learned to dig in my edges and a little ice doesn’t scare me, in fact I thrive on it because it’s how I learned. I wouldn’t know where to start skiing on powder. Probably fall in and never be seen again. Which reminds me…
That wasn’t enough for those guys. They had more to “teach” me. Another time we went up to the Catskills. The mountains up there are not as high and therefore the ski runs are very steep. I was not having a good time, so the next day they announced we would go cross country skiing. Sounds good to me.
What I didn’t know at the time is that cross country skis really have to fit well for your height and weight, not that it would have made much of a difference for what happened next. They waxed up some skis, put them on me and we took off from the cabin, so far so good. The next thing you know they were leading me UP the DOWNHILL ski run on the way to the top of the mountain where they liked to cross country ski. People were looking at us like we were totally crazed, I was near tears, taking one step forward and two steps back, side stepping up the hill. The guys were just stomping up the hill like it was nothing.
We finally got to the top and skied around on the top of the mountain. It was a crystal clear day and we stopped at a fire tower, climbed up and had a lunch of bread and cheese and wine, of course. I will repeat, it was a fire tower, so you could see snowy mountains and trees wherever you looked – we truly were looking down at the world around us. It was virgin snow, too. Powdery.
I thought up was bad. After lunch, it was time to go back down. No, we didn’t go down the alpine run on our cross country skis, but we took off through the woods. There was no path, no groomed trail, just deep snow. I kept falling. My skis would get stuck in snowdrifts. I was miserable. I guess they got tired of my whining and waiting for me because the next thing I knew, I found myself watching them cross country down the hill, through the trees, the soft snow spraying as they flew down (I still don’t know how they did that!) – and they were gone. I was alone in the woods, with only their trail ahead of me to lead the way.
My family knows how much I like to be alone. Not this time. Damn I was scared. I was only 23 years old for heaven’s sake, literally a babe in the woods. All those wonderful Slavic and Russian fairy tales that planted the seeds of my romantic love of winter came back to haunt me – snapping twigs, falling snow, everything scared the hell out of me. I called to the guys – they were just gone.
Of course I kept following their path – once I realized I could do nothing but follow their path, I did. I think I relaxed a bit because although I was cursing them the whole time, I fell less and became less frightened. When I got to the bottom of the hill, the cabin was right there. I went inside to wine and food and a hot fire and felt quite the sense of accomplishment. Not that I didn’t make sure they knew what asses they were, but they just pointed out to me that I had done something I didn’t think I could do and lived through it. I hated it when the New Yorkers were right.
I still like to cross country – haven’t done it in years, and and when I did I never choose a trail that takes me up an alpine run. The memory of the lunch, in the fire tower, remains with me and made that experience worth the agony. That and the fact that experiences like that of course made me grow in bravery, which has served me well.
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