I am on a Boy Scout Outing. I am a Boy Scout. I've got this big long title, First Class, New Scout Patrol Leader, Quartermaster, and yet I still haven't learned to ski. Ironic. No matter I'll learn, and while I do, the Boy's Scouts don't let me down. The scenery is incredible. At several thousand feet we stand above the clouds, the white carpet skirting the mountain on our way up. At the top a patch of rich royal blue stretches across the sky as far as the horizon. The sun conquers the freezing cold and wild desolation of winter, and the woods sprawl in crisp life and deep soothing hues. This is a ski resort though, so there is snow. One patch, like a ski slope for the northern giants, descends from the summit, disappearing into thick grove of trees on left, and appearing again over the shallow incline before which we stand. Whatever giant laid the icy pavement, he used a straight edge and steady hand for not even a snowflake is out of place.

Well then again, I am out of place. I put on the whole gear, from my helmet to my skis when I realize I had to pee. So I had to take off every piece of gear but the boots (the one piece of gear I wanted to remove). Then I had to descend two flights of stairs with my ankles locked in place (that's why I wanted to get rid of the boots). I waddled sideways down the staircase like a cyborg penguin, lurched into the restroom, and realized I really didn't need to go pee. So I tucked back in my pink thermal underwear (no really it was pink, I got it from my aunt), re-zipped my shocking red parka, lurched back out, and waddled back up clutching the railing of course -and got to my skiing lessons.

Well, all the newbies huddle around the instructors in the middle of the walkway where everybody can see that we put our boots on wrong. Well everyone else put their boots on wrong. I learn from mistakes. I switched my boots. I tightened my boots. And I still have my boots on, and I can't stand properly, and I can't move my ankles, and I can't take the boots off.  For  two hours, I endured a merry go round ride on the edge of a precipice crammed into a minivan with four brothers and more ski jackets than the red army; just to put on that ski boot, and go skiing. And now I hate the ski boots, and I'm not skiing. Then the pickup pulls up.

Well they packed us all into the back this ancient pickup truck. Half of the back of an ancient pickup. Someone had decided to erect a railing dead center in the middle of the bed; a monument to some deceased lunatic no doubt. Now some other brilliant person reckoned we could all fit on one side of the railing. Three scouts, a family, a few tourists cackling in another language, and the instructors all crammed in one side of a pickup. Sardines. Oh, did I mention the railing was a couple of pathetic metal bars, bars I could easily slip through? Maybe that's why they packed up so tight?

Well we pulled down the ramp that led to the street, and it was steep, and we didn't make it. The back of the pickup, where I was standing, yelled and screamed as it grated against the concrete. The bumps and potholes that bounced the back of the car beat some manners in the back of the pickup, but I'd rather have a screaming bumper, than be bumped myself. Remember I was standing in the back of the pickup.

The instructors exchanged light small talk. “He,” I figured it was the driver they spoke of, “must be in a bad mood". The car jolted again and I came to the same conclusion. “Probably best if we get some whiskey in him,” suggested the other instructor. Great...just great. So here I am pinned against the railing with my ankles locked in place (did I tell you I hate those boots?) in the back of a museum piece and the driver is apparently a livid maniac whose primary psychiatrist is Jack Daniels. Thankfully I got to the top of the hill alive.

All the newbies (that's me) piled out onto the snow and that's when they really tried to kill me. The instructor told us to put on one ski, only one, and spin around, and skate forward, and skate back. Of course we did a great job, and of course real people ski with two ski's, and of course there was a ditch right behind us. That's when he put two skis on us, told us how to stop, and sent us down the hill; with the ditch on our left.

Well I figured it out pretty quick. You use your shins to force the skis into a wedge which controls your speed, or you force them into a V and crash. If you have them parallel you go, fast, really fast, lightening fast...okay maybe not. We were skiing the bunny run. Well after a few short exercises we were ready to ski.

Beginners don't use a ski lift, we use the magic carpet. Fifty yards of rubber stretched on rollers like the loading walk on a Disneyland ride. The walk is on a three foot hump in the snow. Three feet, but you have to side step and drag your ski's for every inch. At the top is a frozen rug for grip, but its...well...frozen; not very helpful Only if you can get onto the magic carpet itself are you truly anchored and have finished the three foot climb. Learn forward or you'll be thrown back.” Backwards, I've been fighting the backward slip for the last three feet, I'm an expert. I'm not. I'm thrown
backwards, but I catch myself.

The magic carpet rivals a snail in speed, but it's faster than climbing with ski's. So I wait. At the top I push out, force the skis into a wedge and ease my way down the three feet. I need to make a nighty degree turn with no experience and a far amount of velocity, and I feel more helpless than when I climbed up the three feet. Go figure. I get down though, reassemble, push out down the slope, fail, push out again, I got a rthym, I got a V, I'm doing the splits, I've crashed, I'm back up, I'm going back down, I'm going to crash, no I'm good, the V slips back, I enforce the wedge, manage the speed, now I'm going too slow, now I'm heading for the ravine, lean on your left foot, now I'm going to hit a snowboarder, all the way to the bottom, go all the way to the bottom, I'm going to run into my brother, make a wedge, make a wedge, the wedge slips, oh god, I collide, and the wedge returns. I made it. Now I'm ready for prime time.

Okay. My mom folds laundry, pays the bills, and cleans the kitchen, repeat. When she's sick she reads, but in all she's pretty dormant. Now she stands head to toe in skiing gear, her face glowing with adrenaline and joy, and her hands confidently gripping the skis.

“They said lift six is good for beginners,” she says. Beginner's obviously means me; not her.
“Have you been on a ski lift?” she asks. Does reading about one count?

“No? Don't worry its easy.” Yeah, just as easy as skiing I'm sure. So we ski over to the entrance, realize its not the entrance, and realize we have to drag/climb up to the entrance. Far worse than the accursed three feet of the magic carpet. I'm literally trying to ski uphill in slush. In the end we have to remove our skiis, replace them, and ski down to the Ski-Lift.

Okay here's how a ski lift works. The terminal is an iron shack (with the attendant locked inside), and a awning supporting the iron bar that the lifts come in on. The balcony is shaped like a U. A pulley drags the cars down to ground level on the right side of the U, and then turns them around a middle divider, and pulls them back out along the left side of the U. No, there is not a U painted around the center divider or the iron bar, you have to use your imagination. Now on the left side of the U (or left side of the divider if you can't use your imagination) runs a sheet of ice under the path of the cars. The idea is to wait at one red line as the first car rounds the curve, push off toward a second red line, and wait for the second car to round the bend and pick you up and take you out. Here's the problem. The cars don't stop for you. In fact they don't care which red line your at when they hit you, or if your at a red line at all, or if you want to ski or not. They just keep going, round and round. If you happen to get to the second red line just between two cars, and if the second one happens to accidentally pick you up, then you might get a ride. Great for you. If you go too soon you'll crash into the people in front of you, and if you go to slow the second car with slam into you without as much as an apology. Too bad. Easier than it sounds, actually, but of course I got hit. The car didn't say sorry. Well everybody got to see me get hit with a ski lift, and they patronized me with a slower speed, but I survived. The ski lift ride wasn't so easy.

A hippo could slide out the ski lift, and I probably should be compared with a albino weasel runt that hasn't eaten in days. I can count my ribs. I'm proud of it. I'm not starving. I simply eat what I want; chocolate, more chocolate, red meat, more red meat, potatoes, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, with cheese and beans. Do I get scurvy. Nah, I'm simply going to slide out of the cart, fall about thirty feet, break every bone in my body, and regret not eating more veggies for the rest of my life. Do veggies make you fatter? Maybe I should eat more butter. Well my brain will be a vegetable if I hit my head hard enough when I fall. Coma time. Dream of pretty girls, vegetables, and butter for an indefinite amount of time, and wonder what really makes you fat, and the real reason I'm skinny, and whether or not I was drunk when I signed up for this trip. Needless to say, I don't want to fall.

I don't remember much about the first two runs. The first one was pretty boring. There's no rest stops, no checkpoints, and no snack shacks along the way to get a Gatorade. So you have to ski all the way down without any help, and nobody would listen to you if you asked, and nobody would care if you crashed. If your skis aren't in a wedge you go too fast and could have a heart attack. If your skis overlap in the front you're going to go head over heels. Oh, remember, a “V” means you crash. I crashed. Another piece of advice. Your shins always have to be pressing on the lip of the boot. Always. Basically your going too fast already, and the only way to stay in control is to lean forward even more and just beg for more speed. And then crash. As I said. The first run was pretty boring.

The second run basically had a turn that beat the living daylights out of me, and the rest of it scared me out of my wits. You need your wits in skiing by the way.

The third run was the most interesting. Well my mom thought we were all pro skiers by now (what she really thought is that we could do more than Bunny Run), and so we were going to try "Learning Curve." Learning Plummet. Straight down with no chance of stopping. The gauntlet. Baptism of fire (ironic since I don't think you can light a fire in the snow). Death by Skiing. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. All names for the this hill. The first part was a very shallow downward slanting bowl. The second a straight, flat slope. The whole thing was lined with half of a half pipe formations, and coves for the snowboarders to do tricks. For me it was like skiing down into Tartarus. But I need to learn, and no time like the present. I formed a brilliant strategy. Ski in zigzags. Ski to the other side, turn around, ski to the other side, turn around etc. This is how it turned out. Ski to the other side, Crash. Ski to the other side, began to veer down the slope, pick up speed, I don't want to die. Crash. Ski to the other side, go into the cove, up the side, and start going back down, backwards. You don't ski backwards do you? Crash. Ski to the other side, professional turn, ski to the other side,
get thrown back, and ski the rest of the way down on my haunches. All the way down on my haunches. I look like a frog who had his feet strapped to two logs by some escaped mental cases, and shoved down Niagara Falls. What can I do, but grimace...and, well, look like a toad who's careening down a waterfall. Well as for the frog masquarade, I'm wearing blue, not green. No matter. I'm at the bottom. I cheated. But I'm at the bottom.

The rest of the slope was challenging, but I skied. I did and I didn't crash. The speed and the turns and the scenery truly get the heart beating and the blood flowing. I wouldn't trade it out for a roller coaster ride. But there is also the sense of accomplishment. Here comes the turn, keep your knees bent, keep your shins on the lip of the boot, keep the wedge...I made it at full speed! Now here comes another turn...God! that drop looks intense...I did it! I'm turning again. I'm checking my speed. I'm zipping along straight and true with the cold wind at my face. I don't look like a frog anymore! The skis jolt and rock a little bit, but they're my skis and I'll do with them what I want. I want to get down the hill, fly down the hill like a bird, slide down the hill like a penguin, roll down the hill like an armadillo. Wait. Scratch that. I don't think armadillo's roll even if one's in a ball, and I don't want to roll at all.
Every run led to the bunny run, and it's a welcome break. As long as you do it right you can simply glide along even swerve a little bit, and enjoy the sight. I smile as I easily evade a crashed snowboarder (hah, what now landlubber!), and pull up and pass another skier (I may be a frog, but he's a turtle!). Whenever the snow turns to slush and you start slowing down, the snowboarders have to hop like deranged crippled rabbits to try to find more snow. I have my poles, and I smile and wave. With a wink, I stab my poles into the ground. One, two, one, two, one, two, I've found the snow again and they haven't. (Eat my dust...or snow.)

I try that slope again one more time, before I eat, but my strategy really doesn't work. I can't get down without crashing, and so it's not really that much fun. I do the Easy Street again and again, and it get's easier and easier. That one turn still beats the hell out of me though. The idea is to make a wide turn at full speed, and then check your speed before plummeting down another yet another hill. Isn't one near death experience good enough? You're simply going too fast, and I can never make it. Never. The minute I see the ski lift pole, I know I'm going to crash. In fact I can just make out the three fates knitting away.

One time I crashed so nicely one of my skis went into the ditch around the ski lift pole (hole in one), the other one soared down the hill (never knew I was a pole vaulter), and I flew through the through the air like an eagle. I hit the ground on my stomach and slide (it feels like your on the rack) and get snow into my parka and pink thermals. But I get up.

I knew time was running out. It was three thirty and at four o'clock the ski lifts stopped moving. What happens if your on a ski lift at four? Well they start up again at eight the next morning, so there is hope. Maybe a little cold, but if your dry enough and don't fall out...Well my parents aren't going to let us spend the night on the ski lift, so we need to leave in thirty minutes. Put simply, me and my brother need to ski down the hill as many times as possible in thirty minutes. Go.

We're on fire, devouring the runs like pizza. Same slice every time since we can't ski anything else, but I can eat a million cheese pizzas. Into the ski lift, up the mountain, look at the bones littering the floor (just kidding), feel the exhilaration as the ski lift speeds up (in an attempt to push you out just an inkling too soon), and slide out. Hit the slope running (or skiing), down the first one in no time. Here comes that accursed turn. Now I'm flying again (Eat your heart out Orwell brothers). Now I'm up and down the second hill, nice turn, almost hit a tree, and down the hill again. The slow section, snow turns to slush, and the snowboarders are eating my rubber as I plow right past 'em.

The final run. I didn't want to go. I was stuffed to overflowing, and well I didn't want to explode. Literally. Actually I just didn't want to fall. In fact I didn't want to fight my skis and check my speed and cheat death for the length of mile, again. I was tired. If it were earlier in the day, I'd say, Slide backwards down a half pipe and crumple into a pile of jackets, ski's, and wet? Bring it on! Four hours to try to put on skis that are trying just as hard to slide away? Bring it on! Get Thrown on your back right in the middle of skiing traffic? Bring it on! Cheat death itself for the length of one mile? bring it on! As I said before I devouring those slopes like pizza and they were just as unhealthy.

But I was tired. Everybody's favorite skiing hero, had been weakened by fatigue as potent as kryptonite, and he was afraid. But he went anyway. Did I ever tell you I'm a brilliant person. Actually as I went the hill, I began a detailed analysis of death scenes in Louis L'amour's westerns compared with Susan Collins Hunger Games. How Louis L'amour delved into the soulful reaction to imminent doom, whereas Susan Collins exposited the criminal minds and their motivations for bringing their victims to the ultimate point of humility. Begging for their lives. I artfully described how L'amour crafted a far more vivid picture of a man's final minutes, and his shock and terror at finally being beaten. Forever. How Susan Collin's never succeeded in stirring my heart to loath the properties of the predator, and only dulled the killing by her theme. I used the death of Harvey Dent's girlfriend in The Dark Night to support the fact that the victim's final moments...

My final moments. Oh god. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. The tree. The tree. Not the tree. Slam the poles, form the wedge, pray to God. I'm about four feet from the slope and two inches from a tree. That's when I crash. Not into the tree, don't worry, just roll all the way down the slope with one ski popping off that way and one remaining on my boot to make my life as difficult as possible. I get up (you don't want to know how long it took), and started off again. Well I managed to keep my brilliance at bay for the remainder of the trip.

I'm almost done, and I know this sound funny, but...no I can't, no I didn't, you don't want to know...Okay I'll tell you. I actually...well...it was the last time, last run, and...maybe...maybe I should crash one more time to end the day. No. No. I didn't say it. I'm going down in one piece.
Doing good, doing good, doing good, doing bad, I'm back. Another skier forces me up a slope and I have to ski at a thirty degree angle until she let's me have a chance of survival. A child skis across the path. Does he want to die? Man I am tired, I'm getting snappy. I done this run a million times and I still think I'm going too fast. Confidence, all this time and I can't learn just that one thing. Confidence. I go flying.

And so it ended. The friendly neighborhood Big Bear staff asked me whether or not I bumped my head and might have scratched their glistening helmet. I said no, and they didn't want to hear anything else. Nothing. Not how I crashed, not how I tried not to crash, not how I almost died, not how I actually skied. Nothing. So I'm telling you. Don't laugh. I'm serious. Remember it's a true story.