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Skiing

Pixabay photo

By Leah S Dunaief

Leah Dunaief,
Publisher

What happens when opposites attract? Are those the most successful marriages? It is sometimes said that we subconsciously supply missing strengths to our partners when we select a mate. Do we really? Or is it just chemistry? Or possibly both?

We all know different couples and can notice who brings what to each pair. But of course, we don’t truly know about any marriage except our own, and to some extent, that of our parents.

Speaking for my own marriage, I can attest to the fact that differences make for an interesting life. The first example that comes to mind was our view toward vacations. Here is a typical scenario.

He: “Let’s go on vacation next month.”

She: “Oh, I couldn’t leave work next month. We have two new supplements due and not enough staff to finish them.”

He: “You always say that.”

She: “Besides, where would we go?”

He: “How about white water canoeing in the Adirondacks?”

She: “With the children?”

He: “Yes. We can all learn how to canoe. And we can bring the dog.”

She: “How would that work?”

He: Pulling out from his inner suit jacket pocket an envelope stuffed with tickets, “I have reservations for a cabin, four canoes and an instructor for five days.”

You probably guessed. We went. We had a wonderful time. My mother and sister came too, which was critical since our third son was too young to join us on the water. He had a good time back at the cabin, and we did indeed learn how to white water canoe, although I have probably forgotten by now. 

I also thrived on the break in my work routine, and the competent staff back at the office handled the workload just fine. 

Since my husband died, I have had to set a date deliberately for each vacation, and it’s a fight I have with myself because I don’t think I should leave the office. But I also know that I will function much better if I take a rest, and thanks to him, I have become a big believer in the restorative power of vacations.

So what did I bring to the relationship?

Here is another true life adventure story. The children were a bit older, and we were going to learn to ski in Vermont.

He: “I’ll do some research and make the reservations.”

She: “OK, I’ll pack.”

We got a late start and didn’t arrive at the motel until well after dark. Exhausted, we fell  asleep despite uncomfortable beds. The morning light revealed an unmanageable scene. The five of us, along with our suitcases, boots, heavy ski pants, sweaters and jackets, hats and gloves, could barely fit into the room. I had brought a toaster oven with the thought of making Eggos for breakfast and then getting an early start on the slopes. When I plugged it in, a fuse blew with a nasty zap. The bathroom left a great deal to be desired and there were no closets.

She: “Why did you select this motel? Are we near the lifts?”

He: “It was the most reasonable one. The slopes are only ten miles away.”

She: “C’mon kids, pack up. We are going to find another place to stay.”

And we did. It was more expensive, a half a mile from the entrance, and we did become a skiing family. It was also a bit of a turning point. My husband and I agreed that henceforth, we would spend enough money to be comfortable on our two weeks of annual vacation, and upon our return home, we would resume our normally frugal lives.

After that, even our children noticed the difference.

METRO photo

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

It’s hard to come up with a short list of the pros or cons of skiing. The experience, with everything from getting there, to being there, to trekking home, is filled with, if you’ll pardon the pun, ups and downs.

I’d like to share a few observations from our recent venture to the slopes.

For starters, just being in the mountains is extraordinary. The air is fresh, clear and clean and the views of snow-capped peaks and valleys are inspiring. Of course, you have to get to those mountains, which can require anything from a long drive to a flight filled with challenges and delays.

On a recent trip, our flight to those magnificent mountains involved sitting in a row on the plane that was exceedingly hot. When I asked the flight attendant why the plane was so warm, she explained that we were likely sitting near the engines.

The way home was no picnic either, because those wonderful winter storms that bring snow caused us to have a five hour delay, coupled with another hot ride home that suggested that the entire plane must have been sitting too close to the engines. Other passengers complained that they were wearing tank tops and jeans and sweat through their pants.

Back to the positive, the chairlift experience often is an opportunity to meet interesting and compelling people during a short but jovial journey. In one such conversation, I met a precocious nine-year old boy named Stephen, who told me he and his family, including his mother with whom we rode the lift, had recently visited London and Paris. He said he liked the food better in Paris, but that the food in London had improved over the years.

“And how would you know that?” his flabbergasted and amused mother asked. 

He shrugged.

“My mom travels a lot for her work, so she’s not always around,” Stephen said. “Sometimes, we get to go with her to fun places, though.” That statement seemed to offer an interesting window into the dynamic in their household.

Those chair lift rides, however, can take longer to board and to ride than expected. The lifts can  stop at inopportune times, near a snow gun that blankets skiers and snowboarders with snow we’d prefer were beneath our feet rather than trickling down our necks. Other times, people on those lifts swing their legs back and forth, making me feel as if I’m on someone else’s suspended rocking chair.

On a trip down the slopes, the speed and movement can be exhilarating. The swishing sound of the snow and the speed of the wind, without any mechanical noise from an engine, can allow us to experience the world at higher speeds, as the sound of rushing air and sliding skis combine to form a whispering symphony. At the bottom, our tired but rejuvenated muscles can relive the excitement from our self-directed ride.

We are not the only ones on the slopes and, while we might enjoy the thrill of a high speed run, we may also brace ourselves for the possibility that other skiers or snowboarders might push themselves beyond their limits. We could become bowling pins on a mountain, as others lose control, barrel into us and knock us down.

In the moment, the great unknown over the next plateau presents the opportunity to anticipate and embrace the terrain ahead. Perhaps the untrodden snow just past the peak has perfectly packed powder, the mogul (or bump, in modern parlance) is the right height and dimensions to catch some air, or the width and steepness of the slopes is exactly as we imagine when we dream of the ideal slope.

The other side of that peak, however, may have thin cover, with grass or even exposed rock, while someone may have taken a spill just beyond what we can see, turning them into obstacles we have to avoid.

While the pieces of equipment makes it possible for us to traverse snow covered mountains deftly, they are not designed for everyday maneuvering. Walking through a parking lot in ski boots can be torture for our shins, which may take days or more to forgive us for our skiing indulgence.

And, finally, the weather can offer the kind of glorious sunshine that transports us into an Ansel Adams poster or inserts us into picture postcard, with light shimmering off the tops of mountains, causing snow covered trees to glow. Then again, Mother Nature doesn’t care how much you spent on lift tickets and is perfectly happy to throw wind, rain, sleet and snow at you from every direction.

Photo from Pixabay

By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

If you can do it, I highly recommend getting away from your life, even if it’s just for a day or a weekend.

Despite the ongoing threat from COVID-19, we took a weekend ski trip. We called the small inn where we hoped to stay and asked if they required masks of their guests.

“When you get here, you’ll see that there’s almost no common space,” the innkeeper said. “You’ll be in a small hallway.”

That was music to our ears and, as it turned out, exactly as he described. We only saw two other guests that weekend and that was in the parking lot.

Upon check in, we called the family that ran the inn, who directed us, unseen and contactless, to our room, where an old fashioned key, not a key card, awaited us on the kitchen table.

After we emptied the luggage from our car, we raced up a foggy mountain filled with hairpin turns to the ski slope after 9 p.m. to pick up our equipment. I had read that the ski slope recommended getting the gear the night before to save time the next morning. With only two other customers at the rental center that night, we maneuvered through the process quickly.

Something about getting away from the sameness of the last year was incredibly liberating. We woke up later than usual, had a light breakfast and headed to the slopes. Assured that the three parking lots were full, my wife suggested driving to the closest lot, where a friendly parking attendant suggested we could take our chances and circle the lot. Sure enough, my wife spotted someone pulling out of a spot just as we arrived.

The only remaining obstacle between us and blazing a trail down the mountain was a lift ticket.

Clearly, we weren’t the only ones pining for an outdoor sport, as an enormous line awaited. My wife discovered that the line was for rentals and that the ticket line had only two other people.

Grateful for the time we saved procuring equipment the night before, we put on our skis and shuffled towards one of the closest lift lines.

Sitting on a lift for the first time, dangling above skiers and snow boarders who did everything from carving their way down the mountain to sliding on their backside as their skis popped off, we shed the sameness of home life, home responsibilities and home entertainment.

The first time down the mountain, we reminded ourselves to keep our weight forward. My feet and legs, which have spent far too much time tucked underneath me in a chair at home, appreciated the chance to set the pace and direction.

My ears delighted at the shushing sound and my eyes drank in the magnificence of mountains gently piercing through a blanket of clouds that changed from white and grey to orange and pink during the approaching sunset.

We had a few challenging moments. Numerous skiers went maskless until reminded by a lift attended, while some people seemed genuinely disappointed when I didn’t agree to share a lift with them. When I explained to one of them that I was being, “COVID-safe,” she said she was already vaccinated. I told her I hadn’t and was being careful.

A few errant snowboards passed perilously close to my legs before colliding into a tree, while lift lines were sometimes too crowded for comfort.

Still, the ability to get away from a life that, as my daughter describes, “remains on pause even as it moves forward,” provided a refreshing and memorable change to our routines.

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The recent frigid weather was good training to harden us for our trip north this past weekend. We went high up in the Green Mountains of Vermont to ski. Now before you wonder at my sanity, I hasten to repeat what my clever neighbor told me when he heard we were going. “Skiing? Just hang out at the bar for a couple of days, then come back and tell us you went skiing. We’ll never know.”

So with proper full disclosure, I confess that I did not ski. I stretched out before a roaring fire in the lodge with a good book that was interrupted only occasionally for some good food and a good nap here and there. But my children and grandchildren skied and dutifully reported back at the end of each day in such vivid detail that I felt like I had swooshed down from the summit but without the cold and the half-hour wait on the lift lines to get there. Now don’t get me wrong. I always loved to ski. Why else would I have put up with the long drives, the absurd boots, the itchy hats and the running nose except for those few exhilarating moments when the view of the valley below from above the snow line is spectacular, the air is sharp and clear, the snow sparkles with sunlight in an unbroken trail before me and the deep silence assures me that the splendor is mine alone.

That said, age has its advantages, and I stayed warm and dry, letting subsequent generations enjoy the marvel of skiing.

We were there to celebrate my middle son’s 50th birthday. It became a tradition in our family, when my oldest son turned 50, that we would gather at the location of his choosing to properly mark the occasion together. This trip was not without its dangers but not from skiing. It was the drive up to the slopes on Friday that kept us on the edge of our seats in the car, peering into the darkness. If you remember, the day began uncharacteristically warm, but as the hours went by, a deep freeze descended from the north and pushed into the warmer air, creating dense fog.

We crossed the Sound on the ferry, unable to see the shores, and actually missed the turnoff to the Merritt Parkway and thence Interstate 91 from Route 8 on the Connecticut side because the fog shrouded the signs above our heads on the roadway. That wasn’t of any great consequence as we continued on Route 8 to Interstate 84 East, a slightly longer stretch, but it did serve to warn us of what lay ahead.

We drove for the next couple of hours and the fog only seemed to intensify, but we were in good spirits anticipating the coming weekend’s festivities. We even stopped for a nice German dinner in Springfield, Massachusetts. What difference would a couple of extra hours make, we rationalized, since it was going to be dark anyway by the time we left the highway?

Initially driving wasn’t so difficult on Route 103, the first of the back-country roads, because there were other cars snaking along, marking the contours of the road with the glow of red taillights. At one point a bus joined the parade in front of us, and that was dandy. The real problems started when we turned onto Route 100 and left the bus behind. So dense was the fog that we missed the turn and had to circle back for a second try. 

We were all alone from that point on, sometimes inching our way forward, straining to follow the yellow midline. Snowbanks lined the road, with only an occasional reflective marker to indicate a precipice off to the side. In that fashion, our hazard lights blinking noisily in the car to avoid anyone colliding with us, we traveled the next 24 miles. We knew we were climbing because our ears popped periodically, but we could see nothing of the mountains. We finally arrived at our lodging, a couple of hours later, in a glazed-eye stupor.

After that, simply skiing was a piece of cake. Birthday cake, that is.