Oh, it was a glorious weekend. Sunday was the crowning jewel.
We got up relatively early (for us on a weekend) threw our gear in the car, picked up our favorite family of cohorts and headed up Grand Mesa to Powderhorn.
The sun was shining and the snow was fine. And I skiied.
Yep, I skiied even though my snowboard and virtually brand-new boarding boots sat neglected yet again.
I haven't been boarding in a couple of years since I sprained my ankle. Instead, I grew to love the spectator sport of watching Mar ski while I dodged back and forth between the base of the bunny slope and the bar (mmm beer).
I promised Bill that I'd get back on my board this year. I vowed that Mar and I would take lessons — her to improve on her solid ski basics and me for a refresher course on how best to not fall on my plentiful ass.
But instead I said to hell with it and even though I haven't skied in 10 years, I rented skis for the day.
And I'm so glad I did.
Mar and I spent most of the day traversing the bunny slopes. We made it down a few blue runs and did quite well. And except for the one run after lunch when I couldn't ski fast enough to get away from Mar's singular bout of whining, it was really a shitpotful of fun (is that how it's spelled, shitpotful? Or it is shit pot full? or shit potful? I'm gonna have to ask Google. Hang on. Hm, there doesn't seem to be a consensus, but shitpotful seemed plentiful so I'm going to stick with that.)
Of course the day had an inauspicious start in that on the first run down, Mar leaned too far back and ended up bombing down the hill sitting on the back of her skis. Needless to say, she was ready to call it a day right then and there. But I yelled at her a bit and forced her back on the lift (my parenting skillz are inspiring, no?).
The scariest thing I learned on the slopes yesterday was that while Mar handles stress just like I do (crying, whining and generally acting like a brat), she also is very much like her father, too (thank goodness).
Along side a couple of the bunny runs are some horrible, bumpy trails through the trees. Later in the day, as her confidence grew, Mar started trying some of those trails.
And. She. Loved. Them.
I tired them, too, only to end up be heckled by some dudes on the lift shouting "more fries and less pizza" meaning my exaggerated snow plow wasn't the way to make it through the trail.
For not having skied in 10 years, I did remarkably well, if I do say so myself, and I didn't fall at all.
OK, it wasn't actually a fall skiing as much as a fall trying to get off the lift with one ski on.
Mar and I were getting on the lift for the last time before they closed down and we in good spirits, although a bit tired.
I had a lapse in attention once we got sat down and kicked my right ski back too soon. Next thing I knew I was looking back over my shoulder at my right ski impaled into the ground and the guy behind us awkwardly raising his snowboard to avoid smacking it.
Much to Margaret's delight, I started shouting, "My ski, my ski."
The lift operators didn't notice because it happened way after we were seated and on our way.
Finally they heard my shouting, plucked the ski from the snow and thrust it into the unwilling hands of a snowboarder on his way up the lift.
My right ski was five chairs behind us and I had to get off the lift.
The lift operator saw us coming ... or should I say, heard Margaret laughing and slowed the lift down while I feebly tried to ski-walk off the lift.
I immediately crumpled into a pile and tried to shimmy out of the way as Mar skied away bent at the waist, laughing hysterically.
Oh the things I'll do to entertain my kid.