It’s cold.
I just got off the lift. Looking down the long slope to the bottom…it’s steep, and icey. My skis are new, and have a scarily large turning radius compared to the old rentals.
I’m in a t-shirt.
She told me, quite firmly, to stay away from the top of the mountain. Of course I go up anyway, seeing the one blue trail on the map. She doesn’t want to watch. “And please don’t die.”
Well at least I know how to wedge turn.
Sort of.
It doesn’t really work all that well on steep ice.
This is bumpy, ungroomed, very hard ice. My skis barely cut into it. I fall, and fall again. My elbows hurt. Skin on ice isn’t much fun. It’s a long way down before I start hitting warmer snow. I’m scared, and the occasional profanity comes out a little higher-pitched than I intended.
It’s windy, too.
I could practically walk down the mountain faster. Back and forth, wedge, sit down. Stand up, fall. Stand up, wedge, wedge, wedge, sit down, try to stop. The light is starting to fade.
I don’t have ski poles.
Third time I’ve ever strapped on a pair of alpine skis. I’m so fucking brilliant I can’t hardly stand it.
It took me a while, but I got down that mountain all by myself. Stupid boy. It was fun, but next time I’ll put something over the t-shirt.
(Note to self: whenever encountering older lifts, check the seats for grease before sitting!)