Flirting on the Fall Line

My new roommate Jim invited me to join him and five of his college friends for a weekend boys-trip to ski in the Mad River Valley in Vermont, just a short drive from the dreary brown of the Boston winter. Jim had learned to ski at Mad River Glen and raved about it, telling stories of his parents trucking him and his siblings up most winter weekends to jump and fling themselves down the slopes of trails named Paradise and Octopus’ Garden. Skiing was a far cry from my central New York childhood, where winter meant ice hockey first and foremost, and maybe Nordic skiing in the backyard if you had those kind of parents. 

Our weekend started great. We’d been the first ones to arrive at the rental house and it was perfect. Large windows framed views of the mountains, the white kitchen was clean with fresh trash bags in the receptacles and each shelf in the refrigerator sparkled. I checked out each of the five bedrooms before picking my favorite, the one on the top floor, the warmest with the rising heat, and a queen size bed piled with blankets. 

The rest of the friends pulled in throughout the early evening and Jim introduced me to everyone as they came in, high-fiving and bro-hugging each one as they unloaded their beer into the fridge and placed bags of chips and snacks on every kitchen surface. I smiled and did my best to remember all the names, but as we settled around the kitchen island, I was an audience as they dove in on each other’s lives and retold stories in a shorthand that was lost to me. 

At midnight, I yawned pointedly and said I was going to bed. Jim gave a brief wave as he opened another beer. As I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up, a roar of laughter rose from the kitchen. I closed my eyes.

***

I woke as usual at 7AM, my internal workday alarm ringing my eyes open. 

When I padded downstairs to make the coffee, the white kitchen no longer gleamed. Empty beer cans and bottles scattered haphazardly over surfaces, open chip bags spewed their pretzels or Doritos onto counters. I sighed and started the coffee.

By the time Jim and a few friends had woken up, the kitchen was spotless, and I had eggs and breakfast burritos laid out on the center island.

“Edgar, you are the best,” Jim said. “See, guys, I told you he was the best,” he said as he handed out plates to the friends staggering in from various rooms. “And, soon, we will be off skiing the most awesome place in the East,” he said. “You’ll see. Your payoff for this breakfast.” He raised his coffee mug in a toast to me.

***

His car bounced on its springs, rattling the skis in the back as he pulled into the dirt parking lot at Mad River Glen. 

“You will love this place,” he said. “Runs to die for.”

I looked at the sign with its old-school letters spelling out Ski It If You Can under the snowflake logo. I took a deep breath. The buildings clustered at the base of the slope were low and nestled into what looked like a terrifyingly tall mountain; white stripes of snow snaked down the hill, sometimes criss-crossing, sometimes just stopping in a literal forest.

“Jim, this place looks kind of hardcore,” I said, newly worried about my first-timer skiing status as we walked through the narrow walkway between the rental shop and the general store.

The first lift I saw looked like something from a time capsule. A one-person chair with a bar that didn’t even close all the way. I eyed the lift skeptically. “That thing looks frightening and not very modern.”

“I know,” he said. “Isn’t that great? When they rebuilt it in the 2000s, they made it look just like the original one from 1948.” 

I wasn’t sure great was the word that came to my mind. “You do remember this is day one for me, right? I’ve never downhilled before.”

He pointed to another chairlift further away. “Don’t worry, we’re all going to start on the easy one over there, the double, until we get our legs going. Maybe you can try the single on the next run.”

All seven of us gathered together and headed over to the double chair. Jim showed me how to step into my ski bindings and listen for the comforting snap as the binding locked my boot into place. The others clustered around, eager to get started. I gave a thumbs up and followed their motions to move into the line, shuffling my skis and feeling them slide forward on the snow.

As Jim and I rode the chairlift, I grew increasingly worried. First a giant wall of rock rose in front of me. “We don’t ski that, right?” I said, pointing to the stone cliff spouting blue and yellow icicles.

“I wish. I used to,” Jim said. “Karl and I used to jump off that side.” He pointed to the left where two young boys were peering over the edge, evaluating a way down. “It’s a rush.”

I kept my opinion to myself.

As the lift ascended higher, it did nothing to allay my fears. Steep trails, people skiing between impossibly closely spaced trees, moguls the size of small children. “Look, Jim, you know I’ve only gone nordic skiing before, right? I mean, we talked about this.”

He waved his mittened hand dismissively. “Sure, but you skated, right? It’s almost the same thing. Go forward, turn, stop, start again. You’ll be fine.” 

At the top of the lift, we raised the safety bar, and I stood up, and slid down the wooden ramp onto the trail without falling over. Early victory! I watched Jim push his ski out to the side to propel him forward and I followed. He was right; the motion was similar to ice skating. Pressure into the snow, push out, balance on one leg, then repeat on the other. I managed to move forward on the flat area next to the chair and stopped in front of the giant trail map. I glanced at the colors on the map, there were plenty of green beginner ones, on the right side of the mountain with cute animal names like Duck and Loon. How hard could they be? I can do this.

The group of us collected at the top of the lift, the brightly colored jackets and skis made us look like a flock of exotic, high-strung birds. The air was dense with excitement. Phases like “let’s go,” “the bowl first?” and “move!” flew past my helmeted head.

Jim pushed off his poles and let his skis glide forward down the slope. I followed him, feeling the breeze on my cheeks and enjoying the pine branches laden with snow passing my eyes. 

Ahead of me, a few of the guys disappeared off to the left over the lip of a steep trail while others kept straight on the wide trail. I followed the main group, gaining speed, with every yard forward faster and faster, eventually sling-shotting past Brad who’d stopped at the intersection. He yelled after me, “Stop, Edgar!” 

But I had no idea how. Jim mentioned something about a hockey stop, but as I tried to turn my right ski, the left one ran over the top of the right, making an unstable X out of my skis. I sacrificed myself into the snowbank in front of me to stop my forward motion, both skis sticking themselves into the wall of snow and releasing my body forward on top.

Jim pulled up on the trail behind me. “Why didn’t you stop? Are you OK?” 

“I don’t know how to stop,” I said. “Remember. First day skiing.” I stood up and brushed the snow off myself and looked back up the trail we’d just come down. “That’s really steep.” 

“It’s the way to the simple stuff, I promise. This is the easy way down.”

“It doesn’t seem so easy,” I grumbled under my breath.

Jim and Brad pulled my skis out of the snowbank, reset the bindings and I clicked in again.

Brad rolled his eyes at Jim who sighed and rolled his eyes at me. “Come on, you’ve got to try harder.”  

“I’m going to catch the other guys,” Brad said and pushed on past us. Jim nodded.

I wrangled myself upright and followed Jim onto a narrow trail, with steep, snowy, bumpy runs headed downhill on our right side, and on our left, steep snowy runs headed directly onto our trail. I did my best, really I did. But after the fifth fall, I was sweaty, exhausted and very, very irritated.

“You aren’t trying,” Jim said. “Just follow me and stop falling.”

“F*** it, Jim. I am trying.” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and counted to five. “You go and find the others. I will make it down and meet you at the bar later.”

Jim swiveled his head toward the trail named Canyon that spread below us full of lumpy snow bumps. His eyes gleamed with snow lust. “Are you sure?”

“I am very sure,” I said. 

“OK,” he said with a huge smile as he pushed off and scampered down the trail, flowing around each mogul at speeds I couldn’t fathom. He did make it look fun, turning around large bumps, using smaller ones as launch pads to catch air, landing and absorbing with his knees. A whoop of joy floated back uphill to me as I faced my nemesis Broadway path and crept forward again. 

Forward, fall. Forward, fall. The pattern repeated itself so many times I couldn’t count. A pack of children shorter than my waist swarmed by. Then two men wearing knee braces and sporting grey beards. Finally, I gave up and laid down in the snow. I pushed my back into the slope about me like a recliner chair and focused my eyes on the blue sky above. Maybe I could just stay here for the rest of the day. It wasn’t too cold; the sun was warm enough, almost no wind. It was a pleasant place to sleep.

“Are you OK?” a voice called to my right.

I sat up to find a woman in a black outfit peering at me. A walkie-talkie strapped to her chest blinked a red light, and a black waist pack encircled her stomach. She looked ready for battle.

“Are you OK?” she asked again.

“Physically bruised, mentally shattered.” I tried a smile.

“Are you here by yourself?” she asked.

“At the moment, yes,” I answered. “I told them all to leave me alone.” 

“Some friends,” she muttered. “I’m Clara. I’m ski patrol. Let’s see if we can get you down. It’s not safe to be in the middle of the trail like this.”

“I am a danger to myself and others when I am moving,” I said. “It’s way safer here.”

She laughed. 

It made me feel hopeful.

“Where are you from?” she asked as she held out a hand to help me stand.

“Boston now, but I grew up in Minetto, New York. Kind of near Oswego. Hockey, not skiing. This is my first day,” I said.

“And your friends left you on your first day?” she scowled before her face lit up. “Wait Minetto? No way. No one is from there. What’s your name?”

“Edgar Delin,” I said, grasping her hand and relying on her to lever me up.

She pulled up her goggles with her free hand. “I grew up there, too. Bodley or Oswego high?” she asked.

“Oswego.” I said as I looked at her face; it looked so familiar. I read her name badge pinned on her right chest: Clara. “Wait. Clara? Clara Fulton?” I said. “Field hockey phenom? State champs?”

“Glory days.” Her smile shone. “And you, Edgar Delin? Tony in West Side Story?”

I bowed and almost lost my balance. She pushed her hand into my chest to right me. 

“Every girl was in love with you senior year,” she said. 

“I should have stuck with singing, not tried this skiing thing,” I said. “What about you and Ivan? Are you still together?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Oh my god, I haven’t thought about Ivan in years. No. No Ivan anymore.”

The surge of joy that gave me was unexpected. “And you live here now?”

“Guess I traded one small town for another. But this one is way prettier.” She swung her arm in a gesture that encompassed the trees, the snow, the sky.

“Yeah, but much, much steeper.” I swallowed hard and said, “Can you help me get down?” 

Her laugh warmed the cool air. “Come along, Tony, just mambo after me and we will get there. You’re almost to the beginner area, and I promise it will get easier.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

“Or I can call for a rescue sled and pull you down,” she said.

“Tempting. But, so embarrassing, right? No, let’s try. Lead on,” I said. “Please,” I added.

Clara pulled her goggles back down and slowly moved ahead of me, showing me how to angle my skis into a snowplow to modulate my speed and turn my skis sideways to stop, almost like a hockey stop. We made it to Periwinkle, down Wren, then Chipmunk with only two more falls. 

After each tumble, she patiently helped me stand and reset my bindings. We traded stories about the evils of AP History, the fire alarm during the prom, and where our lives were now. I smiled and laughed despite my bruised ego.

Finally, the last pitch was in front of me, and the lodge beckoned. I almost wished I had more to go. Almost.

“OK, the last one is a little steep,” Clara said. “Just follow me back and forth.”

I did my best and two falls later we were on flat terrain. Relief sent endorphins through my body. 

I grabbed Clara’s mittened hand and pumped it up and down. “You saved me! I can’t thank you enough. I think I would have just given up and slept on the slope all night without you.”

She pushed her goggles up again, and her hazel eyes sparkled with gold flecks. “Us Buccaneers have to stick together, right? Just yell at your friends for leaving you when they come down.” She dazzled me with her eyes and smile.  

I wanted the moment to last. The sun sparkling on the snow, the blue sky overhead, and the relief at the safety of the flat terrain.

I needed to say something to extend the moment. “Do you want to take another run?” I blurted out before I even thought about what I was saying.

She laughed. “Maybe some practicing on the kiddie rope tow for you first.” She pointed to the little area on the other side of the scary single chairlift. “But, I only have a half-shift today. I end at noon. Meet in the pub?” She pointed to the squat building in front of us.

“That does sound safer for both of us,” I said. 

She laughed and waved.

Maybe learning to ski wasn’t such a bad idea after all.