Then you've got type-A men (quite a few of whom ski) forced to stay home and waste a precious day of life in front of a television where really stupid men with helmets (to protect the smarts they ain't got) try to cripple each other. That's enough to depress any testosterone unit with real brains.
Stressed estrogen...depressed testosterone--that puts the fear of slaughter into the nation's postal workers. So they take the day off and hope that McDonalds keeps its doors open for those twisted souls seeking AK47 therapy.This year even the index finger of my wife, a relatively mild-mannered woman, is twitching as she asks me who we should invite for dinner and what size turkey we should buy.
"Let's give the turkeys a rest," I break in, "and go skiing." She's giving me the skeptical look as I carry on, "No cooking or cleaning. No anxiety over hosting a dozen people who probably don't even like us. No brain drain in front of the tube." The door still hasn't slammed. "We'll eat up on the hill--just our family. Some other sod can cook for us...and clean-up after us."
Sometimes even the Gestapo can be turned if you catch them in a weak moment.
When we arrive at Crystal Mountain, Seattle's largest local ski hill, on Thanksgiving morning, I figure the place will be swamped. Schools are out and there's the El Nino factor to consider. In a normal year, five other local ski would be open for business; this year California is mopping up our moisture, meaning Stevens Pass and the four Snoqualmie Pass ski areas are singing the browns.
Only Crystal Mountain is open. I worry that it alone will be soaking up all those skiers who should be spread out among six areas.
"I'm wrong.
The place is as empty as a midweek day in March.
I'm not expecting much from the day. I know the area's new six-pack will not open for a few days and that the High Campbell Lift to the top of the area's double-diamond drops will not open today. I suspect rocks will maul my bases, and that an off-piste run is likely to send a snag through by chin.
My ignorance shines bright again.
We find adequate coverage even on the lower mountain. We start with laps on one of the lower lifts, the Quicksilver Chair. As my two daughters get the feel of the longer skis they've grown into, I cut through six inches of fresh snow on the flanks of the lift. No hidden branches skewer my legs.
Later, we take laps elsewhere on the lower mountain using the Midway Chair. My five-year-old is ripping, using the bamboo poles that mark thin snow coverage as slalom poles. Still our skis aren't scraping rocks.
By three o'clock, the kid's legs are vibrating like tofu. With a hidden agenda I ask, "How about some hot chocolate?"
They bite on the bait and the nurturer in the family takes them indoors while Mr. Testosterone heads up the mountain without all the baggage.
The top of this ski area boasts views few resorts in the country rival. Of course the curse of the Northwest is that those views are rarely seen. Today is no exception--the in-your-face hulk of the 14,400-foot cone of Mt. Rainier is obscured by clouds that obstinately refuse to drop snow.
I drop into Green Valley, a steep, quarter-mile wide bowl that sports rounded, nicely spaced bumps. The gray skies of winter are already darkening as I carve through the bumps and send the dry snow spraying with each cut.
Moments later as I ride the old, double chair back through gladed evergreen forests to the ridge crest, the quiet of the moment grips me. The wind is still and not a single voice interrupts the silence. At a time when most Americans are headed to the closet for an assault weapon, I'm completely relaxed.
Hours later we sit in one of the resort's base restaurants waiting for our turkey dinner. I'm doing the fatherly thing, telling my kids about this holiday and its traditions. I give them the pilgrim spiel about how the Indians saved our white-skinned European asses so that we could later show our gratitude and eradicate them.
My wife gives me the look--the one saying, "Cut the editorializing and give them the party line."
"So what are you thankful for?" I ask.
"I'm thankful for everything," says Heather, my five-year-old.
Nothing like a specific answer to rankle a writer.
"Oh, so you're thankful for all the people who die in wars, the chemical weapons the Iraqis would love to drop on New York, and the drunks who kill innocent people in car accidents. That's great!"
My wife gives me the look again.
"You know what I'm thankful for?" I ask Heather. "I'm thankful we only paid $20 for our lift tickets today."Heather doesn't understand.
"Enjoy the turkey," I tell her, "You'd be eating mac and cheese tonight had we paid holiday rates."
Again the look from my wife.
"So what are you thankful for?" I ask the stare master.
"No cooking, no cleaning" she says succinctly.
I'm thinking about a quote that says old ways persist until someone invents a new way. "Are we going to do this next year?"
My wife takes in the concept, swirls it around in her mind. She looks out the window at the still night and the dim outline of mountains.
"No cooking works for me."
