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heard: a journal of words

I went skiing Monday, my first time. It may be my last; I haven't decided yet.

It all started with an innocent call from my sister.

"Heyyyyyyy, Jenny," she said.

That along should have tipped me off.

"I've got a great idea!"

Now, I have experience with her great ideas, and I sensed trouble ahead. But I really didn't see any way out. Not that I didn't try, but the idea unfortunately wandered by at a weak moment.

Cross country skiing, I thought. Well, OK - it seemed less a death wish than downhill.

So I capitulated. But not immediately, you understand, because I am expected to put up a fight and be tugged, unwillingly, along. I gave her a run for the money.

On Monday, she tried shame:

"Dick bet me you'd never go."

The next day it was bribery:

"I'll pack the lunch. I'll drive. You don't need to pay for a lesson - I'll teach you." (Never, ever listen to a sibling who offers to teach you something. I did, and learned how to ski from a woman who'd only had one lesson herself, the week before. Oh, boy, what a bribe.)

By Wednesday, she was warming up the logic:

"How do you know you won't like it until you try? It's ONLY $12, and it's good exercise, too."

She tried a challenge later that day:

"Kathy's going and she's never skied. But she's at least going to try it."

Finally, on Friday, desperate, she tried lying:

"It's really easy and lots of fun."

And, oh, I suppose it wasn't all a lie: The experience was, well, fun to a degree. But certain aspects of the sport left a lot to be desired.

Like the skis, for instance. These marvels of modern torture seem a least nine feet long, and appear to be a quarter of an inch thick. And I really don't understand why they insist on making them for two left feet.

Then there are the poles. Their only logical use, as far as I can determine, is for extricating yourself from snowbanks. Kathy became adept at this skill. I didn't.

And let's not forgeter the boots with their toe hooks that latch oh-so-easily onto every available hook, branch, or wire.

A few skills eluded me, but a few I managed to grasp. For example:

  • How to fall. (This is very simple. Believe me.)

  • How to stop. (Fall down. See above.)

  • How to get back up. (Difficult, this. My preferred method? Unhook skis, stand up, put skis back on. Seems simple, but try it while sitting in a very cold snowbank, one ski pointed east, one north. And then, figure out what to do as one ski takes off down the hill on its own.)

  • How to turn. Actually, I never mastered this particular skill. I attribute that, however, to my teacher, who neglected to explain the maneuver until we were halfway home.

    One thing about it, breathtaking views await the cross-country skier, and the effort is very nearly worth the pain. Round a corner and watch a herd of deer blend easily into the trees. Stand at the edge of the woods and some 75 of the beasts calmly eyeball you.

    Stray from the trail, and you find vistas worthy of an 8x10 glossy, including a whitened expanse of water and swamp reminiscent of the tundra, not that I've ever seen it, of course. You gain an appreciation for trees and shrubs along the trail, too, although I have admit it's strange that the resort routes its trails through the things and not around them.

    The key to this sport, I've decided, is practice. Practice a lot. I chose to practice how to fall.

    In fact, while practicing my skill of the day, I became particularly well acquainted with one lovely shrub - and, as one passerby remarked, "I've met bushes like that before."

    Oh, and thank you very much indeed. It was certainly a comforting thought, but I had no real desire to be on speaking terms with that particular hawthorn.

    I prefer to believe they were laughing with me, not at me, however. I truly can't imagine any cross country skier becoming adept at the sport without lots of practice. Falling.

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