In Lieu of the Olympics...how bout the former Olympics?

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Well, we did a three day trip to the mountains, to take advantage of 'all that snow'.

Day one: went to Iceface, err.. I mean Whiteface, the site of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics, and theoretically, some of the best skiing this side of the Mississippi. We managed to get to the top of the gondola, where it was blizzard winds, and honestly, I could have spread my arms at the top of the steepest slope there and never have started a descent on my snowboard, due to the windsheer. Insanely windy. If I held my snowboard over my head at the right angle I might have actually been able to fly...looking back, I should have tried this.

So, finally started my decent with a little creative hopping/voodoo dancing my way toward something really steep which would counteract the windpower, only to find a nicely disguised version of the Rockefeller Center ice rink, all the way down the mountain (or at least the 10 feet of slope perpetually in front of me). The one inch of snow on the top tricked me into falling on my butt at least two times before making it to the first lift, which brought us to the VERY top of the mountain, where the steeeeeps are. Somehow despite laws of physics, murphy, gravity, and wind/mountain dynamics, we were hopeful that the top might be a little less icy, windy and crowded. Ha.

I fell down about 100 feet from the top of the slope, of which I had estimated to be at least 99 feet of ice. Then I fell again at 102 feet from the top...and I just sat there. After a few moments I decided that this was just crap, and I would walk down this stupid mountain, before I gave it the satisfaction of actually attempting to use it for its intended purpose. With a huff and a growl in my boyfriend's general direction regarding sudden hatred of this stupid mountain, I unlatched my first binding, then my second...and still complaining preceeded to stand up and take my first step down, my boyfriend, Mark, watching as well as a few other amused bystanders. Most of which were probably still using the previously mentioned laws in their immediate action planning. Well, turns out, a 35 degree slope totally ice, is very slippery, and I made it precisely 1/2 step before falling full body on the slope, legs in the air, and sliding a good ten feet. Stupid mountain.

Well, suffice it to say me and my ego had to snowboard down, as, realistically, we were 3.6 miles from the bottom, which hadn't occur to me mid-tantrum, and walking was going to be more painful and time consuming than I had at first imagined.

I felt better though that Dorothy Hamill (aka Mark with a smug, "I've got skis on and I am laughing at you, because ice is my specialty" look on his face) got his skis run over by one of those crazy little kid skiers on the way down, and the smug look was no longer with him by the time we reached the bottom. He was so pissed that we took off our gear and just left.
Mark tells me we are not going to "Ice-pop" again. Ever.

Oh, did I tell you that Dorothy Hamill got his first speeding ticket in a decade, on the way to Ice-pop that morning? Heh heh. A 6 pointer... we should have known then.

Day 2-3: Home Mountain, fresh powder, all is well again. No crowds, no ice, no ski tantrums, no speeding tickets. Today I had my best board day ever. Went bombing down a couple of expert runs, looking like I knew what I was doing. Which is practically better than actually knowing what you are doing.

Cheers, Jess (aka Tonya Harding)

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