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Outside Magazine December 2003

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Ski Naked (cont.)


	GREEN RUN: Krista (left) and Chuck on the slopes at Breckenridge. (Gail Albert-Halaban)

AT THIS POINT, the group of 25 divides into its natural cliques. The jocks, many of whom stayed up all night eating Cheetos and drinking pop, are surfing the TV and chewing tobacco. A few of the girls are still asleep. The parents who aren't going skiing clean up the kitchen. Chuck and four others—Katie, Melissa, Liz, and a quiet girl named Krista—head to the Snowflake Lift and catch a ride up to Peak 8 to start carving turns. Another gaggle of skiers take their time finishing breakfast, then head toward Peak 7. Susan Sondag, Ann Russell, and I follow Nathan and two bundled-up girls, Andrea and Robyn—nervous neophytes all—to the base of Peak 9, where they'll get a ski lesson.

The morning is foggy and cold; the sky looks like soapy dishwater. None of the 12,000-foot peaks are visible yet. All you can see are tree-covered mountain shoulders gently sloping up from the valley—and condos, most of them concrete monsters built in the seventies and eighties.

"How deep is the snow here?" asks Nathan, tapping it with a pole. "I bet it's three feet deep." He contemplates the sheer volume of the stuff, shaking his head in disbelief.

Before long, a tanned, sixty-something instructor wearing a crimson parka and reflective shades clomps up and introduces himself. His name is Geno Morse, and he gives off a warm Dr. Phil-as-surfer-dude vibe. He pauses to memorize the kids' names, then tries to allay fears by explaining that he's "the most experienced instructor on the mountain."

Geno starts lecturing on ski boots—why they're so stiff and how they fit into the bindings. He has each student practice stepping in until they hear a click. "Now we're humming," he says.

Next he dives into an explanation of wedging, offering a physics lesson on why skis are so darn slippery.

"I swear I was better the last time I went skiing," Chuck says, slowly getting up after the latest of his gonzo wipeouts. "Serious."

The students aren't giving Geno 100 percent attention; they're distracted by the parade of skiers sliding around, trudging up stairs, and relaxing on the observation deck. On display are casual, tattooed twenty-somethings in their New School-style baggies, along with over-forties who dress like it's Aspen circa 1980, their buns shrink-wrapped in tight pants. A group of middle-aged Oklahomans are lolling around, sipping Bloody Marys. Near them a screaming kid has spilled hot chocolate all over himself.

Geno moves to the next topic: riding a Poma lift. The group ski-shuffles to the boarding area, where they get a first leery look at this contraption, which consists of platelike seats attached to an overhead cable that drags you up the mountain.

"OK, put the platter up close and personal with your privates," Geno instructs, "then lean back."

Robyn, a sturdy, athletic blonde, looks doubtful and approaches the Poma unsteadily as the seats keep moving by. Geno has seen this before, and he sweeps in for the save. As Robyn's eyes well up, she gets some tough love.

"You're thinking too much," Geno shouts over the grumble of the bull wheel. "This thing is harmless. C'mon, step up here and let the platter take you for a ride."

They get the hang of it, and soon they're hobbling around on top of the bunny hill. They hunker into their wedges and start creeping down the mountain.

These guys are on their way, I think, so I say au revoir and catch the closest lift to find the more experienced skiers. It's snowing hard, but I spot them from the lift and ski to where they're gathered, on a flat spot in the middle of the Four O'Clock run. They aren't doing much skiing. Mostly, they're standing around Chuck, who is sprawled on the snow, waiting for him to get up after the latest of his gonzo wipeouts. He's hyperventilating.

"Chuck's getting quite a workout," says Sondag, who caught up with this group earlier.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," says Chuck, a twisted heap of limbs and poles. "I was better last year."

It turns out that Chuck is not quite the intermediate skier he said he was. After getting on his feet again, he heads down a run, does a pirouette on his third turn, yells "Shit!" and, presto, the big man is back on his ass. His ski mates swarm around him.

"This is so lame," Katie mumbles.

"I swear I was better than this last time I went skiing," Chuck says. "Serious."

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