I had never been downhill skiing. The opportunity arose where I could go with my social group up to Flagstaff, Arizona for a day trip with a ski lesson for $57. I decided that sounded like a fun idea so I signed up.

I did have an ulterior motive in that there was a certain guy I was interested in whom I had met at another gathering. He is from Brazil and I happened to speak a little Portuguese so we kind of hit it off. We had a lot of common interests like scuba and backpacking so I thought it would be fine to get to know him a little better. We’ll call him Paulo (not his real name).

We all met at a Starbucks to carpool up to Flagstaff. I was hoping to beg a ride from someone as I don’t know how to drive in snow and I wasn’t sure of the conditions. I was hoping that Paulo would drive and I could ride up with him. When I got there, he said he didn’t know whether he was going to stay up there for the night or come back, so I said that was okay as I would pile in with someone else on the way back as I knew there were pleanty of people returning that same day. I was signed up for a 9 mile hike the next day and wanted to come back.

I rode up with Paulo and another guy I’ll call Edward. We had a great time yukking it up and chatting and listening to Edward’s enormous collection of 80’s music. When we left the Verde Valley to climb the mountain into Flagstaff, Paulo announced the the gas gauge “Empty” came on and we needed to stop for gas. I said, um, there won’t be a gas station for quite some time. there is literally nothing between Camp Verde and Flagstaff except Munds Park and that was some way up the road. I was concerned. Paulo had never been up to Flagstaff before as he has only been living here a couple of months. Edward re-iterated my concern saying that we were pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Paulo said that there was about 30 miles of gas left when it was on empty so no worries. I said that was great except we need to go about 50 miles.

We just did roll into Munds Park on fumes and stopped at the first Shell station. I was never so happy to see that obnixious yellow shell.

On to the mountain, we made it and met with the rest of the group. One woman there had come up the night before and she was all in her ski outfit as she had her own stuff. She swooped in on Paulo and started taking over his day. She enthusiastically asked him if he were going to stay the night, what he was doing for lunch etc etc. He replied that he would stay the night and she whipped out her cell phone like it was the Bat Phone or something and started calling her hotel to see if there were rooms so she could book his room for him. Then she grabbed his ski pass and started helping him attach it to his coat and I was getting a little annoyed. What was she, his mother? I had told this woman prior that I was interested in Paulo and I guess there are really no rules in love and war, and this was a little of both. But, I have a personal rule that stems from self-worth and integrity and that is I don’t fight over men. I was having fun and was going to learn how to ski and that’s what I would concentrate on.

The line was long to get the rental equipment and we missed the 10 am lesson and the next lesson was at 1. We got our skis and boots and were left to our own devices. Paulo said he wanted to just get out there and do it, and I admired his fearlessness. I am relatively fearless myself, but there is something about sliding down a mountain on a pair of sticks that does unnerve me slightly. I really wanted to wait for the lesson, but that was not for another three hours. So I went along with the crowd and donned my $75 ski pants and had someone show me how to strap into the skis.

Ski boots were invented by someone who loves pain. They keep your ankles extremely rigid, which I supposed is to your advantage, but I was pretty confident that my legs were both going to snap at the shins. Then you have to get your skis and carry them outside. They weigh slightly less than that boots, which is to say it’s like trying to carry a couple of lead telephone poles. I slung mine over my should to try and look like I knew what I was doing but at the same time trying not to render those around me unconcious by hitting them with the skis. Then there was the walking around in ski boots. Everyone was clomping around like Herman Munster with a gate like Jar Jar Binks. Sort of a drunken bobbing.

So I hit what was called the “bunny” slope for beginners. Me and a couple of other women sort of stuck together. Paulo took off with his mamma, the woman who was intent on taking care of him. I wondered if at dinner she was going to cut his meat for him. Anyway, I was busy trying not to die, I couldn’t worry about them. I ended up aimed downhill and started sliding. I got up to speed close to say, mach 2, and discovered I had no idea how to stop. I had these visions of Sonny Bono and that one Kennedy smashing into a tree. I, however, would not be as lucky as them and die on the spot. I would probably be left quadrapalegic and live another 60 years until I could talk somone into feeding me strychnine. So I purposely fell. I sat down, rapped the back of my head on the ice and skidded on my back a few more feet before coming to a halt and laying there dazed. That’s how I stopped from then on, just flop down. I was sure there had to be a different technique to stopping on skis. Paulo yelled for me to get up off the snow before I froze but he was too late. I was already frozen. I took the skis off, got up and went to find a place to sit and cry. I am usually pretty good at anything I try but this was going to be a challenge. I saw snomobiles go by dragging a litter to pick up bodies with and thought I would pay real money to get a ride on one of those. Instead I cambered back up the hill and decided to chill out until the lesson. I met some of the others for lunch, then it was time for the lesson.

I learned how to stop which was nice, but still, if I got going too fast, I still had to fall down. I was hating skiing more and more. I looked around at the others who made it all look so easy. When we made our way ( me skidding on my butt mostly) down to the ski lift I decided I had enough. It just wasn’t fun. I told Ryan the Ski Instructor that he was a wonderful teacher, but I was just not going to be a skier. I went and turned in my things, changed into some dry clothes and hung around until everyone was back and ready to go to dinner.

We all went to the famous Beaver Street Brewery, then Edward, Paulo, and I headed back to Phoenix. Paulo is magic. He transformed from a affible, nice, funny, interesting person into an arrogant, preachy, nonstop talking know it all in the space of an hour. He started getting really philosophical, and would not let anyone else finish a sentence before he would interrupt and tell you you were wrong and we might as well be talking about flowers. He all but called me stupid. I am hard enough on myself and really don’t need anyone preaching to me and telling me that I am not equipped intellectually to converse with them. I almost asked him how to say “You SUCK!” in Portuguese. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the guy. Hate is not the opposite of like or love, indifference is. I hate him and that means I care somewhat. He’s nice, funny, animated, and interesting as long as you stay in the shallow end of the pool with him. Don’t go deep into anything. I am not in the least bit worried about him reading this either. Inasmuch as him reading this would indicate some interest and curiosity in something other than himself, and that just won’t happen.

I was really happy to return and get into my own car where I am the Captain. That was the end of my ski adventure. I’m not sorry I went, I did have a good time. I also learned a lot and have been feeling a lot better about things.

I also heard that Paulo got in a fight with another guy at a group event the following Monday.

The ScubaJedi