The Home Run

“So much for the storm of the century,” I grumbled upon waking Monday to blue skies and the same measly, leftover trace of white from the day before.

I heard an audible eye roll as the husband rose to the bait, “Did you even read the weather discussion page? It’s not supposed to start until this afternoon.”

And thus began our annual winter ritual. See, I’m an eternal pessimist, whereas he opts for the attitudinal high road. As if this isn’t bad enough, I’m also somewhat superstitious. In a household where pragmatic heads prevail, this can often lead to lively discussions about one of our favorite topics: weather, and more importantly, snow.

See, every time the forecast predicts the “mother of all storms,” I can’t help but morph into Negative Nelly. The problem is partly borne of living through those dark, dreary days of the early century, when I became convinced it was never going to snow again. The skepticism is also part of a primitive notion that somehow, by merely talking about a storm, I can scare it off, causing it to unexpectedly veer north to the undeserving I-70 corridor, or, god forbid, south to Albuquerque. But perhaps most of all, my doubt stems from an unabashed form of emotional self-defense. Believe it or not, beneath this crusty, negative exterior, I’m actually quite vulnerable to the whims of the jet stream. I’ve been burned so many times by the Weather Channel, that I’ve taken to playing hard to get. In other words, if don’t I don’t get my hopes up, I won’t be crestfallen when the snow hasn’t.

See, unlike a lot of folks, I actually look forward to this time of year. There’s something in my upper Midwestern heritage that, in addition to making me sound eerily like Sarah Palin after a few drinks, also yearns for fleece and flannel. When people escape for the warmer climes of the South Pacific or Caribbean, I’m perfectly happy here (or so I tell myself.)

Anyway, in an effort not to jinx winter and spoil it for all the snowbirds, for the last few months, I’ve been living an extended Indian summer dream. In other words, riding my mountain bike, slacking on putting the shrink wrap over my drafty windows and commuting around on shamefully bald cruiser tires. But the other day, as I fishtailed through a busy downtown intersection, narrowly escaping a painful brush with a black ice death, I decided it was time to get real.

Armed a few hours later with the beefiest knobbies I could find for my girlie pink bike, I plowed home in several inches of snow. And that’s when, for the first time this winter, I allowed any real thoughts of skiing to enter my head.

See, like most local recreational opportunists, for the last several months, I have been eyeing a certain, shall we say, clear cut above town. Now, the idea of skiing this hillside – which shall remain nameless because if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you obviously don’t deserve to know – is nothing new. In fact, last winter a ragtag band of neighbors had been making regular covert missions up the hillside (affectionately called the “Home Run” – no reference to the defunct restaurant). However, there was some shrubbery to contend with, making for what we call “creative route-finding.” But this year, much to our delight, a denuded swath was blazed down the hillside, practically begging to be skied. We considered it a gift from the gods – to not ski it would be an insult. (Plus, I have to gets my

kicks somehow, now that Colorado Ski Country USA has revoked my annual press pass. Something about not covering enough “real skiing.” Luckily, I’m not very bitter.)

Anyway, the night before my heroic mission down the swath (referred to as the “Brazilian” in certain circles) I divulged my plans to the spouseman.

“You’re gonna get worked,” was his response, followed by a request to watch said working from the back yard. But perhaps this was just his own version of reverse-logic, you know saying one thing in an effort to bring about the opposite. In other words, “It’s gonna be sick!”

I awoke Tuesday morning giddy at the site of a foot and a half on the patio table (another item of the abandoned “to do before winter” list). Slipping on my bibs and boots, I postholed to the garage in search of my skis. Still caked in last year’s end-of-season mud, I dusted them off as best I could in the early morning cold, affixed my skins and called for the dog. We stole out of the house, and after some dawn-patrol bush-whacking in search of a “short cut,” we were reunited with the trail – and each other. We soon fell into a rhythm, set to the tempo of my creaky cable bindings. Eventually, we topped out, and I stopped to prepare for my epic descent (at my age, just bending over to put on my bindings can be epic.) Below, I could see the town waking up from its winter slumber, and my tiny house, buried in a blanket of white. It all looked so cozy and cute that I wanted to break into Christmas carols. But this was no time for Burl Ives. Instead, I quickly called the old man (OK, I brought a cell phone – you never know) to inform him to get ready to witness history in the making (that, and I felt a little guilty for shirking morning shovel duties.)

I was ready to drop in when, in typical fashion, the dog was nowhere to be found. I called for her and stopped to listen for the familiar jangling of dog tags when I heard the faint but unmistakable creak of plastic boots.

Intruder! Suddenly, my morning solace was shattered by the notion that my poaching was about to be poached. Please dear god, not a jibber! Imagine my relief – and his – when I discovered that the poacher came in peace, a fellow two-planked opportunist from down the street, an original pioneer of the Home Run .

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little glad to have some company. Who knows what sort of evil lurked beneath that thin veneer of innocent fluff? One poorly placed knee, and we’re talking an excruciatingly painful and humiliating hobble home. Besides, he assured me, it still counts as first tracks if you make them with a friend.

Anyway, I’m not going to say they were the best turns of my life or anything absurd like that. But they were the first of the season, and for mid-December in southern Colorado, and practically in my own back yard, they were pretty darn good. All this and I emerged with both knees intact and a huge smile across my heretofore scowling mug – all before breakfast. Storm of the century or not, maybe – just maybe – that dark cloud of doubt is finally lifting.

– Missy Votel