Willow Park offers 13 miles of groomed trails and a variety of skill levels. It promises skiers the chance to enjoy loops, hills, ridges and wonderful scenery. The weather was great, the scenery wonderful indeed, the skiing...not so much.
The day started out well enough. We tried one of the easier loops, and the first leg of it was enjoyable. Our house sits at the bottom of a canyon, so from about mid-November to mid-February, we don't get the sun at our house. After two months in the shade, the mountain sun felt great on my face, like putting on a favorite, well-worn sweatshirt after days in a constricting business suit. Our skis easily glided along the trail, making quick work of the first half mile or snow.
Then the turnoff came. The first bit was slow going, requiring us to break trail.
"Want to turn around?" My husband asked. "I think this is just sticky because it's been in the sun."
"Nah, it'll get better further down the trail," I replied. It didn't. We worked our way across the trail segment, walking in our skis instead of actually skiing. Occasionally, I'd have to stop and scrape the sticky, wet snow off the bottoms of my skis. Frequently, my ski would stick, my ankle would roll and I'd topple over to the side. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the left, curse. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the right, curse loudly. Walk, walk, wobble, wobble, fall on my ass.
Ahead on the trail wasn't any better for Ben. He was dealing with the exact same conditions I was, but I never saw him fall once. I threw my hands up in protest and promptly fell back on my butt. Again.
"How's it going back there?" Ben called.
"Never better," I replied. "This is so much fun we should do it every weekend!"
We may have only been married 18 months, but Outdoor Guy knew me well enough to understand the snide cheerfulness. Ben ignored my sarcasm and we continued along the trail. Every so often, he'd point out something he saw along the trail...squirrel or rabbit tracks, owl scat or just a weird looking tree. I'm sure the area was pretty, but by that time I was so wet and frustrated, I wanted to cry. The only good thing about the day was that it was going better than the last time we tried skiing. Then, I'd lost control on a slight downhill slope, panicked and threw myself into a snowbank to stop my momentum lest I crash into a tree. Instead, I bashed my knee on a rock buried in the white drift, tearing my pants and giving me a substantial limp for the next three weeks. Today, I couldn't pick up any real momentum, so my spills were considerably less spectacular.
Finally, we hit the intersection where our trail met another. This trail was a main thoroughfare, so trail had been broken and the going became much easier. In theory.
Ahead, my husband shushed along the luminescent path, pausing every so often to look back over his shoulder at me. My skis would now actually glide on the snow, but the trail was so icy, if I got going too fast, my foot would fly out from under me and I'd wobble, precariously unbalanced. Three times out of five, I wound up on my backside yet again. After one massive yard sale fall that required my husband's assistance to right me, I gave up. I took off the skis and powered my way through the snow the last 200 yards to the parking lot.
God curse this wretched sport, I thought. I'll stick with summer activities from now on. But I didn't want Outdoor Guy to feel bad. I'd suggested skiing, and it wasn't his fault I was a complete and total klutz. I tried to smile and said things about how it would be more fun next time, or that maybe I just needed more practice. My crabbiness must have been etched on my face, however, because my husband wasn't buying any of it.
"Now I know why they call it cross-country skiing," Outdoor Guy said, wrapping me in a bear hug and planting a big kiss on my frowning face. "You are seriously crabby."
Maybe next time, we'll just go bowling.
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