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Show fcTa TTIhe Cart's m- fc)ySK by Randy Hanskal Back on the boards again I could've started skiing at an early age. Could've . . . When I was back in the fourth grade in Plymouth, Michigan my family took a trip up to Boyne Mountain, known as the only "real" ski are in the Midwest. By that time my sister and brother were already hooked on skiing, regularly giving it a shot at a bump with a big ego, better known as Mount Brighton, located about 12 miles from Plymouth. My dad had been on the ski patrol at Sun Valley way back before skiing was a popular sport. He skied on wooden boards that standing on their tails reached from the ground to the tips of his fingers. Way long. My mom had never been much for skiing after heading to college and work to California. Still, she gave it a shot. But I felt quite content with my miniature bobsled. It was an orange plastic object wjth a tiny seat m midst. On both sides of that seat, but within the shell, were bars which resembled emergency brakes. Pulling on one or the other would initiate a tum; pulling on both would act as a brake. i I had progressed from sleds, the mainstay of my earlier winter slope exploits. The bobsled was faster and I was quite content. I had no desire to get on skis, how could they have an advantage over my orange demon? 1 " Still, I found myself on top of the beginner slope at Boyne, looking off of what looked like Mount Everest. Usually I found such slopes exciting, but that was when I was on the ground, safely enclosed by the confines of my orange bobsled. Somehow it didn't seem as fun on these shrimpy little things known as skis. Anyway, being the punk I was, I had no intention of giving up the good life of my bobsled for skiing. I made it to the bottom of the hill, but vowed to get back to the bobsled as soon as possible. Such was my early taste of skiing. Later, when attending the University of Florida, my bobsled was no longer in mind Christmas break was. And Christmas break in Florida, for many, means a 14-hour drive to North Carolina and ski areas such as Beech Mountain, Sugar Mountain or Seven Devils. There, on the man-made snow, I got the bug for skiing while mowing down overcrowded slopes in a slushy, half-drunken frame of mind. Half-hour lift lines seemed a minor consequence compared to the thrill at reaching the top of the chair and heading down the slopes. Those trips amounted to only two or three days of skiing a year, so I was far from an expert. But after college came a year at Breckenridge, Colorado, followed by my first year in Park City. So, when I slapped on my boots last week at Brighton I was facing the start of my third year of skiing. In that time I've gotten in a good amount of practice, but that first dav I'm always a bit unsure. Drivfne ud Big Cottonwood Canyon, I was both excited and apprehensive. At the bottom of the canyon there was no snow to be seen. The thought of rocks tearing into the bottoms of mv K2s was frightening. But as I puttered my way up the curvy road I was pleased by the masses of snow that were growing higher and higher at roadside. Maybe it would be all right after aI1Finally I reached Brighton and knew it would be good. The snow was so much better over there that even the trees still held their share on outstretched branches. I clamped on my Raichles and tried to get used to the awkward feeling of walking against a healthy forward lean. Somehow I made it to the window and was greeted by a smiling face which told me my ticket would cost only $5. Say what? "It's our 40th anniversary, sir," she said. 'Tickets cost only $5 every Monday and Thursday all season, except during the holidays." Such a deal! As I made my way up the Majestic Lift I couldn't have been happier. A bright sun made its way over the mountains in the background, without a cloud in the sky. Perfect Getting off the lift was no problem, and I stopped atop a green run off to the right. There I tried to remember how to ski. I told myself it would all come back naturally, so I pushed off and headed downhill. On the way up the lift I had watched, and listened, as bump diehards came down a face directly under the chair. They were greeted by good-sized bumps, accompanied by some good-sized rocks in between. That dreadful sound of edges scraping over rock made me stay away from that region the whole day long. I could wait until the snow was a little deeper for my bumps. Instead I GSed down a fairly flat green trail which wound through some huge evergreens. The snow was light (all natural, no man made), soft, and there wasn't a soul around. Better yet, there were no rocks to be seen, or heard from. The joy of skiing flooded back to mind, and I made run after run in the same neck of the woods. I stayed about three and a half hours, making maybe 15 runs. Then the people from Salt Lake started to show their faces, determined not to miss the fine weather, or the $5 prices, and I decided it was time to leave. Blazing my way back down the canyon I was glad the way things had worked out. Where back in Michigan it had been time for bobsledding, here it's time for skiing! |