I got back to
So here I sit, in the Amtrak waiting room at
I recognize that travel is an inherently social exercise, and I’m happy to partake in the worst humanity has to offer, but – after all this – I’m somehow ready to be back in
Anyway: my trip. Let’s start with
If you’re in
All that was only first three days of my trip. Eighty-odd hours later, I strapped my ski boots to my backpack and boarded the last plane to
What, exactly, could I say about family that hasn’t already been said? It was great to home. It was great to see me madre, padre, and hermana (I don’t know the espanol for extended family, but them, too). It was great to see the lush greens of my home state, to smell the wet of the newly fallen rains, and so on.
I was, luckily, able to linkup with a few of my old compatriots and sample the hip
Ten days in the Beaver state and I’m proud to say I spent three of them doing that thing I do where I strap snow-planks to my feet. But this best story of the trip? Here it is. But first you’ll have to look at some of the pictures from spring break last year (the
Up until now, that was the Dumbest Thing I’ve Ever Done. So here’s the deal: as we were leaving Timberline Ski Lodge, I volunteered to grab some of the equipment we Fentos left up towards the top of the lodge. The plan was the grab the gear, clip in, ski down to the waiting car, de-gear (it’s a really really bad idea to leave your ski coat on for the drive back), and take off. Easy right?
I got the gear, clipped in, and started to ski back. The low light levels were impairing my ability to see the car, though, and I stopped. After a minute of hard looking, I spotted it about thirty feet down slope of my current position. So I put ’em parallel and sped down. Somehow, between the sun going down and the exhaustion from a full day’s skiing, I judged the the difference between where the snow stopped and the road started to be – at most – a half foot drop.
A half foot? No problem, and I’ll just look that much more badass doing it with an armful of equipment over one shoulder. So I drop over the ledge, and I don’t land. And then I land. Hard. And go from a mostly vertical position to a mostly horizontal one, popping out of my binding and absorbing most of the impact with my little bit of my left shoulder and a lot of my face.
I let loose an immediate utterance, a popular anti-euphemism for what happens after you eat, caught my wind, worked my way into a kneeling position, and looked back to see that the ‘little half foot drop’ looked about six feet taller from my new perspective.
So, in conclusion: old dumbest thing? Matches in the face. New dumbest thing? A face-smashing low-speed jump into a drop taller than myself.
That seems like a perfectly good place to stop talking about the
But we went skiing more than we went out, and we hit up Snowbird, Solitude,