Whistler / Blackcomb

Well, I had nothing planned for last weekend, until, at the last moment, a trip to Whistler/Blackcomb was scrapped together and I jumped on it, hoping and praying that I wouldn't be called in for anything. Luckily, I wasn't.

It was about a five hour drive to W/B, and we arrived there after dark, and checked into the chalet-type place we were staying in. Because of the way that the rooms were set up, I ended up stuck with this dude Earl who I had met only once or twice, but he ended being pretty cool. Sandra stayed with her sister, which quite honestly was for the best, because she was annoying the entire weekend and the less time we spent together, the better. On Sunday she said she was sore, and didn't want to ski. That was fine, except that she tried to get me to stay in the lodge with her, and I wasn't about to give up probably the only remaining ski day I had all season to sit around the fire and talk about my feelings. That meant that at dinner, she ignored me except to make snide remarks, and hardly spoke at all on the drive home.

Whatever. I wasn't about to let her get me down.

Now, you might wonder, what kind of skier is American Jones? Does he ski with the grace and power of James Bond in On Her Majesty's Secret Service? Alas, no. I don't ski downhill so much as a tumble. I am used to the mountains in the east, where the hill consists of ice and rocks. I could barely hold my own there, so powder is unfamiliar territory. People say powder is easier, but I don't know.... you lose a ski on ice, and you just slide down the hill to where it is. You lose one in powder and it's gone for good.

But I did all right. Didn't slam into anyone else and didn't fall off any of the lifts. That's a victory as far as I'm concerned.