SallyCat
Ski Diva Extraordinaire
The mountain where I work closed early today and I had a message from an old friend who also recently relocated to New England. We swap stories of rural life and I was telling him about a recent rope tow adventure in my new neighborhood. It was fun to goof around writing, so I edited the story a bit and offer it here just for fun and because it's ski-related.
It is all true.
That night was my first time on this particular rope tow, which is spectacular in it's jury-rigged, not-entirely-safe functionality. The way it requires bravery, strength, and pigskin work gloves, and yet is used by locals in a completely nonchalant manner perfectly captures New England ingenuity and stoicism.
When nobody's using it the rope droops way down to the ground, and you have to grab it and hold it up. The trick, I learned, is to never be the first one on the rope; always go behind someone so that THEY hold the rope up. (There is, evidently, a particular local woman who is famous for always drafting in behind children).
Once you grab the rope, you have to hold on like grim death, with one hand in front and the other behind you, the rear hand also holding your ski poles. You have to grip so tenaciously not because the tow is fast (it isn't) but because the hill is steep and long and since the rope often hits the ground, it tends to be snow-covered and slick.
On the way up, occasional patches of dirt poke through the snow and when you hit them, your skis half-stop and you half-pitch forward, falling; but not quite.
The top hut approaches and just as you think "ah, almost there, I'm going to make it!" the pitch steepens considerably for 30 feet and the rope slides through your hands and just BARELY creates enough friction to carry you over the pitch to the end of the tow line, where you throw the rope to the ground and ski off with a sense that you just got away with something you don't deserve.
The slalom race runs are pretty thrilling if you go all out for time, and at the bottom you think "AGAIN!" Then you look at the rope and say "Eh, maybe I'll go inside and warm up. You know, rest a bit before going up again..." And you know you won't come back out until it's time to fetch your skis and go home.
The other night a group of us stood around drinking beer from cans and watched a little fray in the rope come around at even intervals.
"Huh. Look at that." we all said.
"That would make a great tow handle" we said.
"I'm out of beer, I'm going inside" we said.
The next evening, the Events Committee sat at a meeting in the base lodge when suddenly the Operations Director came in and said: "The rope tow's down! Split in half. Did anyone notice any issues with it last night? Any fraying, for example?"
The penny dropped and eight guilty minds feigned ignorance.
But then the Ops Director said that we needed to put out a public announcement that the tow was broken. We all came to life and as one shouted "Rope tow? FRAYED NOT!" And burst into juvenile cackles of joyful laughter.
It is all true.
__________________
I went to my first club ski race at the little hill down the road recently. Starting around 5:30, you take a rope tow up, do two timed runs and then drink beer and watch other people finish. Then you go into the little lodge and drink more beer and chat with friends and neighbors until 10:30. It's really a perfect winter evening if you ask me.
That night was my first time on this particular rope tow, which is spectacular in it's jury-rigged, not-entirely-safe functionality. The way it requires bravery, strength, and pigskin work gloves, and yet is used by locals in a completely nonchalant manner perfectly captures New England ingenuity and stoicism.
When nobody's using it the rope droops way down to the ground, and you have to grab it and hold it up. The trick, I learned, is to never be the first one on the rope; always go behind someone so that THEY hold the rope up. (There is, evidently, a particular local woman who is famous for always drafting in behind children).
Once you grab the rope, you have to hold on like grim death, with one hand in front and the other behind you, the rear hand also holding your ski poles. You have to grip so tenaciously not because the tow is fast (it isn't) but because the hill is steep and long and since the rope often hits the ground, it tends to be snow-covered and slick.
On the way up, occasional patches of dirt poke through the snow and when you hit them, your skis half-stop and you half-pitch forward, falling; but not quite.
The top hut approaches and just as you think "ah, almost there, I'm going to make it!" the pitch steepens considerably for 30 feet and the rope slides through your hands and just BARELY creates enough friction to carry you over the pitch to the end of the tow line, where you throw the rope to the ground and ski off with a sense that you just got away with something you don't deserve.
The slalom race runs are pretty thrilling if you go all out for time, and at the bottom you think "AGAIN!" Then you look at the rope and say "Eh, maybe I'll go inside and warm up. You know, rest a bit before going up again..." And you know you won't come back out until it's time to fetch your skis and go home.
The other night a group of us stood around drinking beer from cans and watched a little fray in the rope come around at even intervals.
"Huh. Look at that." we all said.
"That would make a great tow handle" we said.
"I'm out of beer, I'm going inside" we said.
The next evening, the Events Committee sat at a meeting in the base lodge when suddenly the Operations Director came in and said: "The rope tow's down! Split in half. Did anyone notice any issues with it last night? Any fraying, for example?"
The penny dropped and eight guilty minds feigned ignorance.
But then the Ops Director said that we needed to put out a public announcement that the tow was broken. We all came to life and as one shouted "Rope tow? FRAYED NOT!" And burst into juvenile cackles of joyful laughter.