Slippery Slope

My brother-in-law Matt flew in from Syracuse, New York for a ski trip with an old high school buddy. He and John met up at our place in Berkeley.

I've lived here for 15 years, but despite being close to the ski areas around Lake Tahoe, I had never learned to ski.

For no good reason, really. I mean, I could have taken a few days off, driven a few hours to a nearby ski area, and signed up for a class.

But I've also always had a chip on my shoulder about skiing. I remember going back to grade school in January after the winter break. The privileged kids would strut the hallways in new ski jackets. They always left the lift tickets attached so you'd know they'd been to Aspen or Jackson Hole or wherever.

After moving to California, I'd hear colleagues ask each other: “Do you ski?” — it's like an indicator that you are a fun-loving, risk-taking, seize-the-day kind of person.

When I started backpacking the Sierras in the summers, I noticed the ugly vertical scars on the mountains and the housing developments and parking lots in little high-elevation valleys where no development should be. It didn't make me feel any better about the sport.

Class-based anxiety often stimulates these contradictory feelings: On the one hand, self-doubt and the desire to achieve and be accepted. On the other hand, disdain and resentment.

I couldn't really sort out my feelings about skiing.

So for me, Matt's invitation to join him and John created an irresistible opportunity to combine adventure and self-discovery.

At the Sugar Bowl ski area, I plunked down for the beginner's package — equipment, access to the beginner's slopes and a 2-hour group class. After Matt and John headed off for the steeper, more challenging runs, I rode the lift up to the bunny slope. For the next couple of hours, I rode the lift up and glided gently back down again, over and over.

The class was even better: I had the instructor all to myself. Barbara is a self-described Haight-Ashbury-era hippie. Her kids are just a few years younger than I am. We had a grand time together. After she gave me a few pointers, we moved on to an intermediate-level run.

It was a total gas. I told her I'd remember the moment always, and I meant it. The rest of that day, and the next day, were full of other great moments: Joining Matt and John for a couple runs at the end of the day. Starting the next morning, at a different, higher-elevation resort, and being surprised by much faster snow. Practicing the same run over and over until I could do it without falling; then moving on to progressively steeper runs. Tumbling ass over teakettle and sliding on my back, head first down the hill, and noticing how beautiful the view of Lake Tahoe was from that angle.

I was only sorry that I couldn't join Matt and John on the third day. I was just a little too sore. Instead, I sat in the lodge at the Kirkwood resort and created a table of acronyms for the draft Watershed Action Plan.

So what do I think about skiing now?

Like most things, once I was actually doing it, grasping it in all of its material detail, I had to let go of my prejudices about it. Well, some of them, anyway. Skiing is a lot of fun. It's a physical and mental challenge that can be enjoyed by anyone who is in fair shape. It's a giddy ride. It's healthy entertainment and it sure beats TV or shopping.

But it's a social abomination. If you doubt this, go and look at the line of people waiting for the lifts and consider, as you watch, that most Californians are non-white, and that most Californians have a household income of less than $50,000. Socially, skiing is all about the thrill of entitlement.

And it's an ecological abomination. If you doubt this, climb a ridge above a ski area, some day in early summer, and look down upon trashed and eroding slopes.

But I've lived too long to let political correctness spoil my fun. The nearest ski resort is two and half hours away, and I'm figuring out how many times I might be able to get there next winter.