Ski-free Vacation



Watching the cold, cold world from inside my cozy condo



As I whined wrote about previously, my husband planned a ski trip while I was still trying to regain full use of my surgically-repaired ankle. He almost convinced me that a ski boot would magically protect me from all things unholy, but my common sense eventually prevailed.  I told him I would be willing to make the trip, but I was staying inside where my chances of living to see another birthday were much greater. And if it was going to be a vacation for everyone, the kids would not be staying indoors with me.

Our room overlooked my favorite ski run.  (Did I just say that?  I have a favorite?  Well, let's just say it's the greenest of the green and therefore the least likely to end my life.)   I could actually look out my window and take photos of my family as they began each day of frozen fun.  It usually required me to stand by the window for what seemed like FOREVER (how long can it possibly take to ride an elevator down two floors and strap on a pair of skis?), but eventually I got a picture of their backsides as they hit the trails.  More importantly, I stayed warm.



My crew headed out for some icy fun with no old lady to slow them down.

 

As I watched countless people glide past my window, I tried to muster some feeling of regret that I couldn't be out there, too, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.  Forget that I find skiing to be a constant battle of man vs. nature (and a tad unnatural if you ask me), but it was freaking cold outside.  The first day there the temperature was around 4 degrees farenheit, and with the near-blizzard conditions, the wind chill made it well below zero.  Not my kind of weather.  Not my kind of fun.

In the end, it actually worked out for everyone.  Seems I'd been holding them back. Without me to spoil their fun, my husband and oldest granddaughter got to try a few black diamond trails.  My youngest granddaughter skied down a few blue hills, quite well from what I hear.  And I got to stay indoors where it was toasty warm.  Yes, it was a vacation from skiing and I couldn't have been happier.

What I Did On My Winter Vacation

I can't ski on a good day.  I haven't had a good day in years.  My husband loves to ski.  I'm not sure my granddaughters "love" it, but they're pretty good at it.  So this is how I ended up in frigid temperatures watching the world pass me by.

My husband knows I'm still recovering from a broken ankle, but he felt compelled to make reservations at a ski resort anyway.  Why he didn't book a trip to the Caribbean I'll never understand.  Lounging on the beach--now that's something I'm sure I'm capable of doing.  But whatever.

I try to be a good sport.  (That's different from being an athlete.  I'm pretty sure I'm not one of those.)  At first I let my husband convince me that a ski boot would support my weak ankle enough to allow me to risk breaking a new set of bones.  Then one night several weeks before the trip, I found myself waking up in a panic at the thought of desperately trying to snowplow my way to a stop before I hurtled to the bottom of the mountain.  That's when I realized this idea of skiing wasn't the best idea I've ever had.  So I put my still-tender foot down.  I would not be putting my swollen ankle into a tight boot to slide down a mountain for anyone.

Contrary to what my family might say, I'm really not the type to demand that others change their lives to accommodate me.  I would still be willing to take a ski vacation, just not willing to ski. So now the dilemma for me was how to best utilize this time away from home.  (I did make it clear to my husband that he would be expected to take the girls skiing with him, at least for part of each day.  Seemed like a fair trade-off to me.) 

I haven't worked outside my home (or inside either, if we're being honest) since my oldest granddaughter was born over twelve years ago.  I wanted to make the most of this vacation, not just pack my mundane existence in a suitcase and take it on a road trip.  As luck would have it, this was the year my husband decided to try a different resort property far from the heart of the action.  So spending my days wandering the village wasn't practical.  Aha!  Maybe I could use this time to do some crafting projects!  It would require me to drag half the contents of  my house to a far-away location, but it would be worth the trouble.  I would use the time to actually create fun things without feelings of guilt; after all, you can't clean a house that's hundreds of miles away.

Then we were there.  Smack in the middle of reality.  It was no longer "what if" but it was now what it was.  And what it was was just another version of My Life.  We got up rather early each morning, got the kids dressed and fed, then my husband and kids were off living their lives. After they left I showered, spackled my face as best I could, and fought with my unruly hair.  Yes, so far this was looking a lot like the life I led back home.

I barely had time to cope with the inevitable depression that happens after I spend 30 minutes in front of a mirror when it was time to meet my family for lunch.  Now mind you, I never knew what time they would find themselves both hungry and near a restaurant, so I spent my "free time" waiting for their call.  Then the rush was on to catch a shuttle bus to meet them at whichever location was convenient for them.  And as I totally expected, my youngest granddaughter had had enough skiing by lunchtime every day.  So it was back to the condo for her and me.

Guess what I did every afternoon?  I taught my granddaughter to use my Cricut machine.  

And when the slopes closed every evening, my other granddaughter wanted me to teach her to use it, too. 

Did I use my vacation to create fabulous things that I would be eager to post on my blog?  No. Did I relax and enjoy quiet time alone?  Not a chance.  But I hope what I did manage to create over that long weekend were lasting memories with my granddaughters.  Yes, you might even say I spent the time Creating Fond Memories.  And it was all good.

Oh, Deer!

The weather was supposed to be perfect for skiing. So we headed to Snowshoe Mountain with the grandkids for the weekend. Please understand that I find skiing to be less than relaxing. Okay, it stresses me greatly. I can't ski very well, and now I have two young lives in my hands. At least the trip there gave me five hours to psych myself up for three days of sliding straight down a mountain on slick boards at a high rate of speed. The fear shouldn't have begun until the next morning.

Well, the discomfort started even before we left our hometown. The climate control system in our vehicle had been giving us trouble for quite a while, so Mark had taken it to be checked by a mechanic. Several times. No one could find the problem. Until the day before our trip. At minimum it would cost $1200 and require several days to repair. Oh well, we had lived with it so far. No time to fix it now. No problem. Except my side of the car was pumping out extremely hot air (did I mention I'm menopausal? Not a good combination.) Mark's side was blowing the coldest air imaginable. We were leaving a relatively mild climate and heading to a snow-covered mountain. Seems we would each be uncomfortable for roughly half the trip. Fair enough.

I was sweltering; Mark was freezing. The kids were complaining (okay, that's a given.)

And then we started seeing them. Deer. Lots of them. Everywhere. As we sped down the winding, two-lane road, I had to wonder when one or more would jump out in front of us. I begged Mark to slow down and be careful. It was dusk. Suddenly out of nowhere, there they were standing in the road. I think I screamed something about watching out, slowing down, some profanities were uttered (okay, shouted at the top of my lungs), and I think Mark finally took his foot off the accelerator and at least pretended to brake. The deer never moved. And for the remaining hour of our trip they were everywhere.

Somehow we arrived safely. Only the usual drama for the next few days. I cried, cursed, whined, fell (a lot), and feared for my life. The kids skied like champs.

After three days on the slopes, I finally earned the right to go home. Mark offered to ski to the condo where the car was parked while the girls and I skied the other direction to turn in our equipment. The car was already packed, so the plan was that Mark would drive to the rental station with our snow boots, turn in his equipment, and we would head to the tubing park for some real fun before going home. The girls and I waited at the rental station. And waited. And waited. Finally, I saw Mark walk in front of the building. Okay, that's not the direction I expected him to come from, but maybe he couldn't find a parking spot. That must be why he took so long. No, bless his heart. He'd had to walk from the condo parking lot (quite a hike, I must say) with skis, ski boots, poles and four pairs of snow boots in hand. Seems the car wouldn't start.

A sick feeling washed over me. How many times had this happened already??? (Not to mention the trip to Snowshoe just two years ago when our car had broken down in the middle of Nowhere, WV, and Mark and I had ridden home in a tow truck.) We all put on our snow boots and started the journey back to the condo, hoping it was a fluke, that the car would suddenly start. Once back at the car, it didn't take long for us to realize it was only a dead battery. Just exactly the way it happened on our last vacation when the car was parked for several days. One of the kids had left the overhead light on when we reached our destination. Those light bulbs will be coming out.

After we found someone to jumpstart the car, we drove to the tubing park only to discover that the 50-degree, sunny weather was melting the snow. The resort was offering test runs so you could decide if you wanted to pay for the opportunity to slide halfway down the hill. Hindsight being 20/20, we should have done this the night before as we had originally planned. Perfect weather indeed. After about 45 minutes of sliding/walking, even the kids were bored (or maybe just exhausted). Time to head home.

So back to the deer. As we drove down the mountain, we saw them everywhere. This time I had the camera ready. Without my glasses I couldn't see what I was shooting, but somehow I actually got some photos of the deer. Such beautiful creatures, yet so dangerous. Another hour of fear and stress, then it was back to life as normal. Hot temps, cold air, whining kids. Life is good.

Whistler (We Weren't Olympians)

For some reason I'll never understand, I agreed to spend our 25th anniversary skiing. I'm not a skier. I don't like cold weather. I had never even been on skis until I was 45. That was another anniversary trip. Can you see the pattern? I don't do much for my husband. I love him, sure. I might watch a few minutes of the Super Bowl with him; after all, it only happens once a year. But hurling myself down an icy mountain on skinny sticks defies logic. And Whistler is more than a mountain. Actually, there are two at the resort--Whistler and Blackcomb. Neither is something I'd choose to propel myself down willingly. Unless I wanted to show my wonderful husband of 25 years that I'd do anything for him. Day one I twisted my knee on a "green" hill. I'm not sure what "green" means in Canada, but it must have a different definition than here in the USA. Even my sweet husband agrees This Was Not a Green Hill. Somehow I managed to continue skiing for six days, injured as I was. It wasn't until the last couple of hours of our last day that I just couldn't take another minute. Loving spouse that I am, I agreed to sit patiently while Hubby took one more run down the slopes. As I sat waiting (in the cold, I might add), I realized just how bad my knee ached. Yes, God sent this wonderful man to me 25 years ago. But look what I'm willing to do for him! And I've never let him forget it.