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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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“Ten great places to snow and go,” screamed the bold type on the Travel page of a recent USA Today newspaper. St. Paul’s Fort Snelling State Park made the list but not the ski place where I attempted to take my first trip down a slope over 40 years ago.
Until then, the only winter activities I’d participated in were ice skating and sledding. But when my husband and a couple with whom we spent a lot of time began to talk about driving to Wisconsin to ski, I thought, “Why not?” and borrowed a puffy nylon jacket from my younger sister-in-law. She offered knickers, too. Blue plaid wool with straps that buckled just below the knees, they matched the jacket and the mittens she’d stuffed in the pockets. The others strapped their skis and poles to a rack on the roof of the car, put their boots in the trunk, and assured me there’d be rental equipment for me when we got there. Telling me to take a lesson on the bunny hill, they offered so much encouragement that I could picture myself graduating to mountains the size of the Alps. As we got closer to our destination, though, my hubby and pals cracked jokes about what perils might befall me on my first schuss downhill. Pulling into a parking space, my husband patted my leg, commented on my cute clothes and chuckled. “Try not to bleed on the fresh snow, okay? Or my sister’s outfit”
“Haha, very funny,” If it’s too hard, I told myself, I’ll just hang out in the lodge and drink hot chocolate by the fireplace like people in movies. We went inside a log cabin-type building to get my gear. My husband took care of something called bindings and snapped my boots in place. Once outside, we headed to the bunny hill. A safe place to start, I thought, but it wasn’t in use that day. “Come with us,” they said, walking toward a fast-moving rope. “Grab it like this,” one said as he wrapped his glove around the cord and let it yank him up the hill. “It’s easy,” said another, doing the same. My husband said he’d go behind me which made me feel better. I reached for the cable and instead of taking me to the top, it threw me to the side. I got up, wiped the snow off my knickers, and watched more people get pulled uphill. My second attempt ended with me on the ground again but with more force. I landed on my knee and ripped the beautiful knickers and matching tights. There was blood on the snow. I started to cry and told my husband I was going into the lodge to have cocoa and find a book in the gift shop.
“Gift shop? Cocoa?” he said, laughing. He explained that the cold log building where we’d gotten my equipment — the one furnished with only vending machines and wood plank benches — was my only option. Still smarting from my falls, I gathered up my skis and poles, the little dignity I had left, and stomped away. Then spent an afternoon in what would certainly be named to anyone’s Top 10 list of coldest places to freeze your tush.