First Runs at Squaw - Livin' La Vida Mocha
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I won't say it was the last run on Squaw Valley's opening day that did it, but I carved turns gingerly, indeed, and condemned my lower back for its spasms. Harry the Camel boogied more enthusiastically, shaking the assets that he'd been righteously shaking since he first strapped on skis. Years back, long before MTV, when we dated girls who did homework, Harry and I began our illustrious careers as ski bums.
Of course, we're talking about Harry the Camel. Relaxed and breezy, still having a good time, screaming into his turns and digging it, Harry once was your Sierra thrill seeker: built like a quarterback, dark-haired and good looking in a Hollywood version of Chief Joseph way, and so cool you could use him to heal warts, so cool in fact women actually enjoyed his routine.
Once we were on top of the Palisades. All day we'd been going gonzo, skiing hard and charging from chair to chair as if we'd just bounced off the ionosphere.
The light was turning bad, the shadows extending toward the circular horizon, and clouds from Sacramento swelling over the valley like the tide in the Bay of Fundy. The world turned under the dying sun and I thought this must be the greatest place on earth.
"This could be disaster," I said to Harry studying our planned descent near the roped off cliff line along the top of Main Chute. I might as well tried to eat a coffee table as drop into vertigo.
"Pattycakes," he responded. "Skiing is integrity. Only romance is disaster." With that he uncorked a beautiful golden run down into Siberia Bowl and beyond that fixed even my jaded mind into a timeless spotlight.
Friday, I realized how fast things move. All of a sudden another year has passed. All of a sudden you receive a card in the mail announcing your 30th high school reunion. All of a sudden Vietnam was another old war fought by the parents of kids now in Iraq that grew up playing Nintendo and never heard of Walter Cronkite. Not only that, the Mountain Run at Squaw, the only run open because of the lack of early season snow, was packed enough to resemble the retreat from Moscow.
But even over glacial man-made, there was Harry, his grin so wide and fixed that you'd thought he was on acid, cackling towards the inexorable conclusion that, being on the hill, back on the boards, is where it's at.
In a ski culture, where defining the moment has to do with mortality, it's still a reward each winter season to carve turns opening day with an aging camel.
It goes to show that skiing is more than a sport as you age. It's a time for reflection. Harry and I are still stunned by the way it all went. Maybe we're crazy. Maybe we're not.
Of course, we're talking about Harry the Camel. Relaxed and breezy, still having a good time, screaming into his turns and digging it, Harry once was your Sierra thrill seeker: built like a quarterback, dark-haired and good looking in a Hollywood version of Chief Joseph way, and so cool you could use him to heal warts, so cool in fact women actually enjoyed his routine.
Once we were on top of the Palisades. All day we'd been going gonzo, skiing hard and charging from chair to chair as if we'd just bounced off the ionosphere.
The light was turning bad, the shadows extending toward the circular horizon, and clouds from Sacramento swelling over the valley like the tide in the Bay of Fundy. The world turned under the dying sun and I thought this must be the greatest place on earth.
"This could be disaster," I said to Harry studying our planned descent near the roped off cliff line along the top of Main Chute. I might as well tried to eat a coffee table as drop into vertigo.
"Pattycakes," he responded. "Skiing is integrity. Only romance is disaster." With that he uncorked a beautiful golden run down into Siberia Bowl and beyond that fixed even my jaded mind into a timeless spotlight.
Friday, I realized how fast things move. All of a sudden another year has passed. All of a sudden you receive a card in the mail announcing your 30th high school reunion. All of a sudden Vietnam was another old war fought by the parents of kids now in Iraq that grew up playing Nintendo and never heard of Walter Cronkite. Not only that, the Mountain Run at Squaw, the only run open because of the lack of early season snow, was packed enough to resemble the retreat from Moscow.
But even over glacial man-made, there was Harry, his grin so wide and fixed that you'd thought he was on acid, cackling towards the inexorable conclusion that, being on the hill, back on the boards, is where it's at.
In a ski culture, where defining the moment has to do with mortality, it's still a reward each winter season to carve turns opening day with an aging camel.
It goes to show that skiing is more than a sport as you age. It's a time for reflection. Harry and I are still stunned by the way it all went. Maybe we're crazy. Maybe we're not.
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