It’s the story of my sad, little life. Now that I am old enough to ski for free at the neighborhood Camden Snow Bowl, I am much too old and brittle.
I used to hold the title of World’s Worst Skier. Certainly, no one in the history of snow ever fell more than I did. I spent one winter as a snow bum at the Snow Lake Lodge in West Dover, Vermont, complete with a Swiss ski teacher contingent. Did I take the free lessons offered by this hardy band? I did not. I concentrated on dancing the night away at the various inns and pubs in the valley which negated any morning ski lessons. I would serve breakfast to our New York City clientele as required, then retire to my dorm bunk.
When I did go out skiing, I would strike out on my own, falling from one trail to the other. I once made an unusually dramatic, skidding fall near the ski lift house. When I struggled to stand and count my limbs, the operator ran over to check me. He said he had his hand on the phone to call the ambulance when I finally stood up.
Just like golf, you cannot play or ski once a year and ever expect to get any better.
I owe it all to sensational daughter Aran Kate for finally learning to ski, at least a little bit. She decided to take ski lessons at the Camden Snow Bowl one winter and I had to drive her for five successive afternoons. The lessons were too short for me to leave and come back, so I hung around.
Why not take a few runs while I waited? Good idea. Skiing five days in a row at least taught me the rudiments of unweighting the downhill ski and I caught on a little bit. I still had some dramatic falls and spills, but fewer and fewer.
My progress skiing at the Snow Bowl was slowed by the memory that a very famous Maine Blueberry Queen took a spill at the ski area and snapped a leg.
The next step was made outside Quebec City when Court Clerk Peggy LaGassey recommended the Mont Sainte Anne ski area. Sure, It was a hell of a drive, but offered trailside condos and skiing for a cheaper rate than skiing tickets at major Maine ski areas.
True, the mountain was not groomed like Sugarloaf and the Canadians skied like their hair was on fire, but Aran and I got a little better every year. I never saw Aran on the mountain because she, too, would ski like her hair was on fire, bombing all the way to the bottom. I would take my time, avoiding any broken bones.
At night we would take the short drive to Quebec City and dine in style. Since I will never get to Europe, Quebec City would have to do.
The biggest pitfall was going home and getting all that Canadian liquor through customs. They caught us one day, laughed, and then let us go. I would assume that border crossings are a more serious business today.
One of my very favorite people, Mrs. Virginia Larsen, former owner of the Black Pearl Restaurant on the Rockland waterfront, once remarked that her Sugarloaf trailside condo was hardly ever used. Blue Eyes and I stumbled into White World Week, where lift tickets were $10 and the crowds were slim at best. Talk about heaven. You have never seen anything until you have seen Blue Eyes in that hot pink ski suit.
Now, I don’t even know where my skis are. I assume they are in the barn somewhere near the unused golf clubs.
Though I am an old SOB, I think my legs still would carry me down the slope. But the essence of skiing to me was always letting go and flying down the slope. Now I would keep thinking of a broken leg, arm, wrist or ankle. Even neck.
I can close my eyes and see that former Maine Blueberry Queen hobbling around on crutches with that big, ugly cast.
Nope. Not even if it is free.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.