The Lift to Nowhere

Ok, one last post about our ski trip. I promise.

Let's keep in mind that including this trip, Brian has skied TWICE in his whole life. I learned to ski when I was seven, we both snowboarded in college and the last time we skied (and the first time for Brian) was seven years ago - IN OUR TWENTIES.

We started the week eeking our way down some blue runs, Brian pausing at the top of each crest to survey what was below before taking on the terrain in long sweeping turns. It didn't take long for him to remember that he is, in fact, athletic, he does enjoy things that go FAST, and he would not be out-skied by his wife.

Flash forward to day two, with some confidence in his bindings (thanks to me!) - he suggests we ride on this:

for what seemed like 1,000 miles:

to get to this:

I don't know if you can tell in the picture, but that LITTLE disc (maybe 4" in diameter) goes BETWEEN your legs and you hold the pole in one hand and your own poles in the other. You are basically goosed all the way up the mountain.

Once you "exit the lift" (read: extricate the disc from your nether regions), you can go straight forward and fall off the back side of the mountain, you can take off your skis and take a little hike to some double black diamond runs, or you can turn left and take the longest, most peaceful blue run back down. Guess which one we chose? I am still alive to write this so that should be a hint.

Here's Brian, killin' it on day three:

I taught him that.