I forayed up to Breckenridge yesterday with a friend and three children, all requisite ski equipment , food and beverages necessary for their pleasure, and cell phone( inserted like a pacemaker in my inner jacket pocket) for their first day of ski lessons. Though the temperature read 6 degrees Fahrenheit after we disembarked in the Gondola parking lot all spirits were high and feelings generally positive as the kiddos met their ski instructors, deposited their sack lunches in the collective backpack and prepared to meet the mountain – all by 8:40 am. Glorious sunshine and good snow conditions blessed us as I prepared for my first adult day of skiing in a decade.
With a stomach made queasy by worries over the children and fear for my own life and limbs, I wedged myself into my own gear (let us not question why ski gear always seems too tight) and we took a bus to the top of the mountain. It was a crystal-champagne glass kind of a day, even viewed through a forest of skis and dingy bus windows. After a great first run and successful mount of the lift I was feeling better . . . until the cell phone rang. I nearly lost a glove and knocked a neighbor off the lift in my efforts to reach the phone, still not managing to open it until the message was left by my children’s ski instructor.
“Um, Mrs. Dravenstott, Dave here, I’m your kids teacher, and I just, well, it’s not an emergency by any means, but your kids are skiing at really different levels and I know that you requested they be together so I’m not sure what to do. One is ready to go up the mountain with the class and the other is definitely not, I’d like to move him down but had to check in with you first.”
Terrific. My stomach pitched to a new level of unease as I madly attempted to find and redial the ski instructor’s East Coast cell phone number while hanging on to my glove and keeping an eye on the lift to make sure I did not have to dismount mid-phone call. I reached the instructor on my third attempt and we both rapidly talked over each other trying to resolve our mutual dilemma.
“Dave, hi, it’s Mrs. Dravenstott. I got your message, and I think it is fine to split them up.”
“Mrs. Dravenstott, it’s Dave. Just wanted to make sure that it was OK to split them up since you specifically requested they stay together.”
“Dave, it’s OK, I just wanted them to start that way – it’s been a whole 90 minutes so I’m sure they’re fine now.”
“Not sure how you feel but they don’t seem overly attached and I don’t want to hold the older one back. I know you wanted them together but your daughter would never get on the mountain if she moved down and she’s ready . . .”
“Dave, I know what I wrote, it’s fine – just split them up! I’m sure my son will behave much better for you than he would for me.” My voice reached toward the octave of hysteria as we neared the end of the lift.
“OK, great. I’ll catch up with you at the end of the day.”
As I juggled equipment and nearly lost the phone to the mountain I envisioned my younger child weeping and bemoaning the loss of his sisterly support and original teacher in addition to loss of pride. I crossed all of the fingers and toes that were not crushed by ski regalia and prayed for a safe and happy conclusion to the day.
Despite repeated perusal of the cell phone – which I generally loathe – no further messages appeared and I relaxed and had a great day. I felt like I was dancing down the mountain though probably looked like a drunk trying to waltz across a tilted floor. The sun was glorious, and though my view was impeded by the disintegration of my 20-year-old ski goggles, the mountain vistas were clear. The ability to use our bodies in the outdoors and the freedom from immediate responsibilities combined in a heady elixir. We swooped and flew to our heart’s content and regretfully returned to the parking lot early to make sure we were ready for the return of the instructees.
My friend’s son – the best skier of the group – returned first with happy face and all equipment intact. He staunchly stood in the meeting area to look for my son, who was (of course) the last child on the mountain to return. In the meantime, my daughter returned with glowing cheeks and eyes and a heady excitement over her achievements of the day. Her teacher assured me of her progress and took me aside to praise her for helping her brother make the transition to a new class. Apparently he dissolved upon hearing of his demotion and she accompanied him to the new class and stayed with him until lunch, until he was ready to separate. Dave said, “she is really a mature kid, I was impressed.” After bestowing extra kisses on my oldest we finally caught up with the little black sheep, who returned covered in the glory of learning to start and stop on command. Though emotionally and physically drained from the events of the day he ended on a high note (what blessings!) and proceeded to giggle (almost) the whole way home.
All of us are looking forward to next week, to new improvements, fresh vistas and safe enjoyment of the slopes. I’ll still take my cell phone but can’t wait for the day when I can drop it in a crevasse, assured of my kids’ safety and enjoyment in the high-altitude heaven of the mountains.
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