Skiing Through Life

Spring skiing can seem something like sloshing through hell. The snow is melting beneath your skis and you wonder if you should have brought a surfboard instead. Go ahead. Roll your eyes. I know wet skiing is a first-world problem. Nevertheless …

I bought an IKON season pass for skiing next season, with the added benefit that it also provided for end-of-the-year Spring skiing this year. Sugarloaf was on their list, and as far north as you can ski in New England, so I picked that for a late April slope. My buddy bought his tickets online, while I took pride in going for ‘free’ with the pass. Had good luck, too, when I got to the ticket window with only one person ahead of me in line. IKON has not yet sent out the season passes, but did send me an email to present at the window, which I did present to Stefan, a red-bearded Sugar Loafer, only to be told they did not honor IKON 2022 for this season. I begged his pardon, and showed him the body of the email, which backed up my claim. He went to see a manager. I waited while the snow continued to melt. The flood had not yet reached the ticket window, so I remained dry. The wind was blowing, though, and I had left my hat behind in the hotel locker room, having seen the short line and figuring this would be a short errand. Stefan allowed some hope that this would bear out when he returned and agreed they would honor the pass. He took my email and confirmation number, plugged it in, and frowned at his screen. My buddy was waiting for me at the lift, and the snow continued to melt, while the wind bundled up what freezing drafts were left to pester me about my unclad head. (Reminder to self – you have lost most of your hair. Always bring a hat). Stefan informed me that there was no picture on my pass. I agreed, and added that neither was there any pass, which had not yet been delivered. Yes, he understood that, but I needed to add a picture to my account so they could print the pass.\

Have you ever been asked to walk on the underside of the ice on a frozen pond? If so, you understand something of my feeling when I was asked to access an internet account, find my profile, find a picture of me, and add it to the account. None of my adult kids were around, nor other still-keen-sighted youngsters to navigate the impossible. So, I grabbed my phone to give it a try. Damn, but didn’t I get right into the account to find a button that said “Add Photo”. And then my phone photos popped up by magic. There must have been at least one thousand two hundred and seventy three photos of my still-keen-sighted girlfriend, along with one of an exotic dancer covered with tattoos in a meme a buddy had sent me a few years back before I knew to delete such evidence because my still-keen-sighted girlfriend has an easier time accessing my phone than I do. Where was I? You might ask who the hell would want to see my old face when they could check out my still-keen-sighted girlfriend, but I had an answer for that. Stefan. And there I was! I bought a new suit a few months back and there I was, preening in front of the mirror, phone and all, in classic black. It wouldn’t do for a passport, but I hoped it would get me on the slope. One more button to tap and I was done. But wait. I got a preview of the photo for approval, which showed just my face, looking as if I had posed for a passport. My first thought was how did they get that picture of me? Had my secretary sent it when she bought the IKON pass? Then I recognized it was the same damn photo some fancy internet magician had cropped while I wasn’t looking. Ghosts in the machine.\

Stefan then accessed the IKON site, confirmed that I now had a photo ID, and told me he had to go inside to his printer and would come back with my pass. I had imagined I had been very patient through all this, but he looked more relieved than I did. Smooth sailing from here, I thought. “Foolish child!” said the wind, blasting my sparsely covered head. I thought about correcting the wind’s diction, before noting that the wind is still very much older than I. Instead, I swore under my breath and waited. And waHad the printer run out of electricity, or was it instead time for Stefan’s coffee break? I never did get an answer to that question, but eventually, before the last of the glaciers had melted, Stefan did come back with an IKON pass with my face blurred by the enlargement of the facial recognition software peering back at me from the upper right hand corner. Success!

Now it was time to purchase a ticket for my girl. I asked for a 2022 IKON pass, secure in the knowledge that Sugarloaf would accept it, but Stefan shook his head. They did not sell IKON passes. No worries. My buddy had bought a ticket for only $49 this late in the season. We were only going to ski for two days, a hundred bucks. No problem. Stefan quoted eight-five dollars. Score! Even less. But then he told me that was for one day. What? But my buddy had purchased for $49. Stefan explained that was online, and prices at the window may vary. So, I confirmed that I could buy on my phone for $49, or from him for $85. Stefan is no dummy. He told me he wasn’t sure of the online price. The wind brutalized the tips of my ears even as I watched the snow melt cascade down the mountain. My buddy was waiting at the lift. We have been friends for life. He is a patient man. My girlfriend was waiting at the lift. She is neither patient, nor a man. I paid the eighty-five bucks.

I jogged down to the locker room to navigate the old spinning locks like we had back in high school when ice covered most of the earth. 43-8-18. That was my high school combination, still retained along with Bob Montgomery’s 1984 batting average for the Red Sox, and a plethora of other trivia so useless it could not even get me a spot on Jeopardy. Spin left, and then back around twice to the right. But do you stop at the second number, or spin past it to count the second time? Damn. Haven’t they ever heard of digital locks? Thankfully, though my ears were still cold, my fingers were fine. My seventh grade gym teacher first taught us how to use these locks, though he had failed to teach me how to wrestle, given that I preferred to flip over on my back at the sound of the whistle rather than allow another boy to attempt perverse acts on me. The lock lesson held. Bingo! The thing opened. Boots, socks, gloves. I hurried to the bench, pulled on the gear, and was ready to go. But my sneakers. I need to store them. I made light of opening that lock, but there had been some luck involved. Could I just hide them? I looked about. Holy of holies! There was no top to the locker. Like me, the locker was old enough to be bald upstairs. I tossed the sneakers up, heard them fall, and was on my way.

So you want to know what my girlfriend said after waiting for me all that time by the lift? Nothing at all. My patient buddy told me she had charmed a lift attendant into letting her on and was long gone on the mountain. I wondered if Stefan would give me back my eighty-five bucks. These young people know all the right moves.