Andalusians have no business going snow skiing. Water skiing is fine–just make sure the lake isn’t frozen.
For one thing, to snow ski, it has to be cold. Andalusians aren’t genetically equipped to handle cold weather. Believe me, I know. I’ve been up here in this Yankee weather for two winters and I’ve learned that cold weather is horrible. It’s what makes Yankees, well Yankees. I find that I get grumpy in cold weather. If you had to walk to work in a 15-degree climate, you’d be nasty too.
If you bump into something in cold weather, it hurts more. If you’re having a bad day in cold weather, it’s worse.
It was 50 degrees when I came home to Covington County. I was so thrilled I wanted to go swimming and strip down to my short sleeves. But when I dropped by the Star News, the receptionist said, “Be careful when you go outside Morgan, it’s freezing out there!”
I went snow skiing a few years back with my father, Uncle Mark, and his sons Martin and Michael.
Since we were beginners, they taught us how to snowplow, turn, etc. . . . By day two, we figured we were ready for the top of the mountain.
On the ski lift, I lost a glove–I watched it plummet hundreds of feet to the pristine snow below. We went higher and higher–past the bunny slopes, past the blue diamonds, past the black diamonds, and in fact, past the tree line.
You might be wondering why five Murphys who couldn’t ski their way out of the lodge went to the top of the mountain–I’ll be honest here and go ahead and apologize to the other Murphy men for divulging our secret–we were scared to death. None of us wanted to jump off the ski lift. Those dang things are scary. With all kinds of nets and gizmos–they look dangerous. We thought we might just ride the sucker back down the mountain, but it dumped us off at the top.
“Well, I guess we should just ski down,” I said trying to keep my voice from cracking.
“Yeah, how bad could a double black diamond super twist be?” my Uncle Mark said.
So off we went. Immediately, Dad crashed into a pine tree. Martin and Michael picked up speed as they rounded the bend.
The first few minutes were scary, but I managed to stay in a vertical position. Dad continued to crash into pine trees as a way to slow his descent down the mountain. And Martin and Michael seemed to have gotten a hang of the whole ski thing.
Then our luck changed. Suddenly I saw a sign that said “WARNING–ADVANCED SKIERS ONLY!” But it whizzed by so fast that I had little time to tell everyone else. Another sign read “WELCOME US OLYMPIC SKI TEAM!” I think my father saw that one, which probably explains why the ski patrol found him clinging to a long-needled pine that evening.
At this point, it was just me and Uncle Mark–my other cousins had already made it to the bottom and were probably flirting with all the snow bunnies, “Yeah, I just came down a double black diamond triple back double half-cafe Olympic ski run.” The guys are smooth.
Their ski tracks went up to the edge of what looked like the cliff of doom.
Uncle Mark said for me to get moving. “No you go,” I said.
“Well, I’ll give you the first crack at it,” he returned.
“No, no, I insist,” I said.
“Maybe we should wait for your father,” he said.
“Dad? He is affixed to a pine tree, forget it. We need to get help for him.”
“Well, okay,” Uncle Mark said, and then thwacked me with his ski pole. Not to be outdone, I pulled on the pole, causing the both of us to go careening down the double black diamond.
Both of my skis were pointed directly down the mountain. I failed to notice that Uncle Mark had learned how to zig-zag. You see, no skier goes straight down the mountain. The cardinal rule of skiing is to change directions. The communists that run the ski school didn’t tell us this little tidbit of information.
Uncle Mark would turn his body so that he was nearly parallel with the mountain–this would slow his descent. Unfortunately, at one point he turned just a little too much and somehow managed to actually have the backs of his skis pointing downhill. This caused quite a stir with the people watching us with the lodge’s telescope–Uncle Mark was skiing backward. In fact, he skied down the rest of the double black diamond backward–the only American ever to accomplish this feat of wonder. The head of the US ski team was so impressed that he asked
Mark where he was from. “Andalusia,” Mark said.
“Oh, that’s too bad, I had hoped you’d be American,” the man said.
Meanwhile, I quickly broke the sound barrier and began passing other Olympic skiers. “Dude,” a few of them said as I roared past, “that guy in the Alabama hat is really melting.”
I tried to stop. First I thought back to what they taught us to do in ski school: a. Look straight ahead b. Put your arms by your side c. Put your knees together d. Push the rear of your skis with the inside of your heel d. Pull the fronts of your skis together. Huh?
I think I saw those ski school guys laughing in the bushes as I rocketed past with my skis on fire. Snowplowing is something that is done to clear streets, not stop skiers.
So since the snowplowing didn’t work, I tried to use my poles to stop. Later, the doctor said he couldn’t believe that I could get half the pole up my nose.
The pole idea had turned into a very painful one, so I figured I should try to create drag by sitting down. Wonders of wonders, I actually sped up since my wind resistance had been cut–and now the rear of my ski suit was non-existent to boot.
As I flew down the mountain, my whole life passed before my eyes. I thought I was hallucinating: my Uncle Mark was skiing backward; my cousin Michael was showing two ski bunnies how to snowplow; cousin Martin had hit a bump and was airborne, and Dad was driving the ski patrol’s cool snowmobile.
But as it was, I was not hallucinating. In fact, I was approaching the lodge at a high rate of speed. I zipped past the ski school. Past the rental area. Past all the folks having hot chocolate. I couldn’t stop. I was out of control. Mothers pulled their small children out of my way. I tried to turn, but the lodge’s front door was right in front of me . . . .
Would I exaggerate Andalusia? Would I have the audacity to tell you that I actually skied up to the reception desk and had to walk out of the lodge with my skis on?
Yes. I think I would. And if you don’t believe me you can ask my Uncle Mark.