Go skiing they said. It will be fun they said. We rented boots. We rented skis and poles. I borrowed a friend’s ski bibs. I already had a down ski jacket. Down is wonderful in the dry powder of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the Lake Tahoe basin. It’s not wonderful in the heavy wet snow of the early season snows in Feldberg, Germany. This was going to be important. I just didn’t know it yet. It turned out there were a lot of lessons available that day.

I grew up around the mountains. I had never skied because skiing was expensive. I had though, spent many hours driving and riding through snowy mountain passes. Tire chains were frequently required for all vehicles and with good reason. The passes would close regularly for avalanche control. We would all sit in long lines, our windows fogging up, with blankets or extra jackets on our laps while we waited for the Caltrans (California Department of Transportation) crews to make sure it was safe. I had assumptions that the bus driver understood mountain driving in the winter. He was German after all. He didn’t chain up. You can probably see where all this might be going. That road up to the ski area was really slick. The drop off was quite steep. The bus didn’t stand a chance and forward momentum will only suffice until the vehicle has to stop.

The bus slid backwards of course. The curve we stopped on meant that the bus was sliding towards the drop off. The road was covered with packed ice and snow that refreezes into a slippery, bumpy mess that is hard to walk on. The wet pile of snow on the edge of the road kept us from sliding off the edge in slow motion. We all got out of the bus and proceeded to slip and fall our way around the bus and to the side of the road. The Polizei showed up, shaking their heads, while they ticketed the bus driver. They waited with us until the bus was fully chained-up. Eventually we all boarded the bus and made it up the mountain.

It was sunny to start the day and a few of us worked our way to the bunny slope. There are very specific rules in Germany about transportation, 2 of them are: never ride in the passing lane on the Autobahn and never delay a skier on their way to the lifts. They will ski right over your skis and give you the dirty look. Eventually, after having my skis tested for their smoothness by a few skiers, I flailed my way up to the top of the teeny tiny hill. That was when it began to snow. Big, fat, wet flakes the size, and weight, of teacup saucers splatted over us. They soaked my hat and my hair, piling up on my shoulders before sliding down the sides of my jacket like the remains of a slushie on a warm, sunny day.

3 times up the small hill and I was getting cold. 5 times up and I was soaked to the skin. The down of my jacket looked like a soggy fitted blanket and felt like a cold pack. The ski bibs were fine but the water from my jacket was now rolling down the inside of my bibs and had made it as far as my right sock. I made one more effort towards downhill control and ended up sitting on top of my skis. They told me to sit down if I went too fast but I do believe that they should have been a bit more precise since I was then rocketing down the slope and all that was left to do was lean over sideways and choose to plant myself in the snow. That was fun. It was not skiing however. I was at this point soaking wet and my teeth were chattering so hard I sounded like I was playing castanets. The sky was darkening, the snow was plopping, and I had had enough.

Fishing out my lost ski from the mess, I decided just to take them both off and not even try to save my pride by acting like I belonged there. I gathered them up and stomped off – stomping seemed to be the only way to walk in ski boots – to the nearby lodge in a heartfelt search to find warmth and to dry off without having to shake myself like a dog fresh out of a bath. The lodge was the absolute best thing about skiing. There I found a giant fireplace and a hot cup of coffee. If memory serves me, it was a simple cafe au lait. But I will tell you, it was the very best cup of coffee I had ever tasted. The crowd in lodge was made up of mostly local French and German skiers. They also seemed to be unwilling to be drenched while attempting to ski. The rest of the day was spent confusing my German and my French. Many of them spoke a patois that mixed both. I could understand it but for the life of me I never knew when to use a French word as compared to a German word.

I don’t remember the trip back to the base but the next morning I had bruises on my shins and an entirely new lackluster view of the whole skiing experience. But, the adventure was well worth it even if I never went back to ski again. Feldburg was/is beautiful.