Ski Poles and Assholes: Living the Griswold Family Vacation

As I write, I find myself coming to grips with a harsh reality.  I’m the asshole.  I had a generous dissertation written out in my head about how the word “tourist” is only a few letters removed from “terrorist” and how skiing is a pastime for self-absorbed assholes.  I was going to carry on about how it is a sport catering to those who have nothing better to do than waste their hard earned money on an overly expensive activity that brings with it not even a modicum of joy when compared with the hours spent queuing up at the lift and the humiliation of repeatedly jamming snow into the crack of one’s ass.  I was going to argue that the first two days of our vacation had been the worst days of my life and that if I was to die tomorrow, I would have proudly had the following engraved on my grave stone:  “Here lies Jack Butler.  He was NOT a skier”.

I spent the first day walking through hell on uncomfortable shoes.  Not once did I strap a single ski to my feet and completely lost my religion on more than one occasion.  My two boys both had ski lessons while the wife and I waited and proudly watched them succeed as all parents do.  Both are naturally athletic and seemed destined for greatness.  Once the lesson was over and lunch was consumed, the youngest wanted nothing more to do with the sport while the eldest was keen to have another go.  Not wanting to deprive the eldest, I agreed to babysit the youngest while the wife accompanied him on the slopes.  I spent the afternoon taking the youngest for bathroom breaks at the single restroom allotted for the throngs of urine spraying masses and dragging both our skis and assorted winter paraphernalia  from one spot to the next.  “Misery” doesn’t do it justice.  Once those that actually got to ski had had their fill, we rode the funicular down the mountain only to find that the bus that was to return us to our hotel was no longer running at its regular 15 minute intervals.  The thought of walking back to the hotel in the torturous ski boots was enough to make a grown man cry.  We called to see if a taxi could come and pick us up and we were informed that this would be IMPOSIBLE!  You can go ahead and insert your own shitty French accent.  It appeared we would be hoofing it.  Swearing that if I did in fact make it back to the hotel on foot I was going to throw the fucking skis off a cliff, we thankfully caught sight of an amended bus schedule.  As it turned out, the bus would soon return and we would make it back to our accommodations without further incident. 

Day 2 couldn’t possibly be worse . . . or could it.  The youngest was in rare form and had no interest at all in another lesson, so we had decided to enroll him in the daycare facility so that his foul temper would not ruin the remainder of our day.  This sat heavy on my heart.  While I knew he was being nothing more than a manipulative 4 year old, the thought of dumping him at some daycare just so we could selfishly get our “ski on” turned my stomach a bit.  Still, we agreed that this would be best under the circumstances and after A LOT of angry words, we got him checked in and hit the slopes.  By this time, the eldest was starting to get the hang of it and wanted to show old mom and dad what he could do.  He had a second lesson that day and was improving at a remarkable pace.  So much so, that his instructor said he was ready for the big slopes and would only be limited by the skills of those accompanying him up the mountain.  Talk about  a slap in the face.  Neither the wife nor I are master skiers.  The wife is amateurish at best whereas I am a complete fucking disaster.  Not wanting to rain on my eldest’s parade, we agreed to accompany him for some practice on one of the “moderate” slopes after a quick lunch at the car.  We had learned our lesson with the funicular and drove ourselves to the ski station on our second day.  Not having a cooler full of ice, it was my bright idea that we simply put the perishables in a bag and stow them underneath the car.  My Holmesian deductive reasoning led me to the conclusion that the ambient temperature would surely keep our mayonnaise cold.  Upon our return to the car, we found that our lunch bag had sprouted legs and wandered off.  My able Watson seemed less impressed with my initial plan since we would now be relegated to dry peanut butter sandwiches and a tepid bottle of water as our only option.  We gulped it down and headed back for the slopes.  I spent the torturous walk cursing my ski boots and scanning the parking lot for the lunch bandit that had made off with our lunch supplies.  With aching feet and a day’s worth of heartache under my belt, some Frenchman was gonna get his ass whipped for stealing my turkey.   The bandit had made a clean escape and we jumped the next lift to the top of the “moderate” slopes.

 

At the top, my eldest and his mother zipped off into the mist while I floundered, fell, cursed, spit, cried and generally threw a very unflattering tantrum all the way down the hill.  At the end of my first run, I called it quits and made it clear in no uncertain terms what I thought about the sport.  I took a seat and let the wife and eldest boy head back for the top.  I spent the next hour fuming over my predicament and swore never to step foot on a ski slope again for the remainder of my days.  By the end of the afternoon I was hatefully angry at everything and everyone around me.  We gathered the youngest from the daycare and headed for the car.  On the way, we ran into some friends.  We were actually staying with another couple for the week, one of which was a colleague of my wife’s.  They are both accomplished skiers and offered to take the eldest up the mountain to the larger slopes where the wife and I dare not tread.  Still angry, I reluctantly agreed, not wanting my disgust for the sport to prevent my eldest from his hard earned achievement.  And achieve he has.  After just two hour long lessons, he proved to be a natural and now skis like a pro.  This however, came with a burdensome lesson for both he and I.

Lending him to our friends, he was provided very specific instructions to check in with Mom and Dad at the end of each run so that we could monitor his activity to the best of our ability.  This would prove to be a test of maturity he was not prepared to pass.  I can’t say as I blame him, peer pressure is tough to handle at any age, but particularly difficult when coming from an adult who you presume outranks you in your decision making paradigm.  When he did finally return, beaming with stories and highlights, I crushed him like a bug.  My rather foul mood made the tongue lashing particularly unpleasant and I was certain that the message was received.  After I had thoroughly “Hulked Out” we returned to the hotel for the evening.  Slowly returning to Bruce Banner, I realized I had judged my eldest much too harshly and had thoughts of rescinding my earlier comments.  Instead I decided to let it simmer and see what the next day would hold.  Preoccupied with the lesson being taught, I realized that I had in fact taught him two lessons that day.  The first was a valuable lesson regarding peer pressure, the other was that his father is a quitter.  Shame washed over me as I struggled to get to sleep.  I have preached perseverance to this boy since he was old enough to hold a spoon and now my actions will surely speak louder than those thoughtful words.  SHIT!

I woke the next morning determined to right my wrongs and truly show my son the meaning of perseverance.  I was going to strap those fucking skiis to my feet and learn to ski if it meant I was going to break every bone in my body.  Fortunately it didn’t and I soon learned to control a semi-graceful decent of the larger slopes.  Eventually, however, the abilities of my son eclipsed that of my own and I allowed him to move along to the more advanced slopes with our friends while the wife and I returned to pick up the youngest from his second day at the day care camp which he actually seemed to enjoy.  On this day, the eldest did as he was told and checked in from time to time so Mom and Dad didn’t worry.  I was still quite irritated by his prior disregard for my instruction and couldn’t shake free of the lock the Hulk had on my emotions.   The skiing went so well for most involved that it was agree that we would wander further into the mountains in pursuit of better snow.  The wife and I needed to a day off, so it was agreed that we would take a day off before our next skiing adventure.  The next day was spent just the four of us.  We jumped in the Renault and charted a course for destinations unknown.  At an information booth in the middle of nowhere, the wife procured a hiking guide and we decided to do a little backpacking.  Despite some difficult directions, the guide turned out to be quite handy and we spent the afternoon exploring the wild with our two boys.  I am pleased to say that we all clicked off a 5km hike in the mountains under our own power.  No small feat for the youngest of us since it was all uphill.  We closed out our day of rest with a drive down a treacherous mountain road for some spectacular views of the scenery.

With a day to recharge our batteries, we were anxious to get back on our skis.  We loaded our respective vehicles and headed for a small village state by the name of Andorre (Andorra).  It is a very small country wedged between France and Spain.  It is in fact the 6^th smallest country in Europe.  The monarchy is carried out jointly by two “co-princes”, the President of France and the Bishop of Urgell.  While it would seem that there is a fair bit of French influence there, it is still an autonomous “country” made prosperous by a booming tourist industry and its status as a tax haven.  The change in elevation was apparent as the snow was plentiful and the slopes much more challenging.  We knew that the youngest was not going to be able to tackle any of this terrain, so the wife and I agree to split the day between us.  One would ski and the other would stay behind to play with the 4 year old.   We would then change guard at mid-day.  I drew the short straw and ended up with the morning skiing session.  I quickly realized I was over my head and stayed with the easier slopes while the rest of the party went further up the mountain.  I spent the morning skiing on my lonesome and was better for the effort.  After lunch, however, the wife’s story would be quite different.

Being more confident on her skiis, the wife adventured further into the mountains with the rest of our team.  She quickly became stuck in the middle of nowhere with no “EASY” route back to the car.  With only the moderate red slopes to choose from, she spent the remainder of the afternoon tumbling downhill.  It would seem that her preferred method for speed control was to stop her decent by using her face which was apparent based upon the loss of her hat, sunglasses and the sizable red rash on her left cheek upon her final return.  As noted, the best skiers go “off piste”.  The wife did so as well, but it was more of an out of control plummet into a ravine after a catastrophic wipeout.  Thankfully, no bones were broken and only egos were bruised, not the least of which was that of my eldest son.  Now, I know what you are thinking.  You thought I said he was a good skier.  He is, but once again, he failed to heed his parents words and received my wrath for the effort.  Disappointment was the appropriate response to his failure to learn a lesson that had been carefully taught, but instead my rage kept me from formulating coherent sentences.  I decided it would be best to cool down before I said anything at all.  He knew he was in a fair amount of trouble, and seemed terribly concerned that I remained so silent.  You could hear the fear in his voice and I knew my next move was crucial.  The wife was kind enough to drive us back to the hotel which gave me a fair amount of time to sort things out.

What was I to say about my disappointment?  He clearly knew the error of his ways and had already apologized to my wife for once again dismissing our requests.  That would surely be enough.  The lesson had finally been learned.  I was proud of him at the end of the day, but angry none the less.  For the entire drive I sat there wondering why I had been so cross with him throughout the week and then it dawned on me . . . I AM THE ASSHOLE.  My irritation was not because he had an error of judgment.  In fact, I was pleased to be able to teach him this lesson in the safety of the current circumstance.  I was angry because I was alone.  I had been left behind.  Was it pride and male bravado that made it difficult to swallow the fact that he is better at skiing than I?  No, I wish it was that simple.  I know and I pray that he is already better than I in almost every way at the tender age of nine.  I realized that I was irritated because this was the first time I would receive a reminder of a day in my not so distant future.  The day when I must let go.  The day when I can no longer be his guide.  A day when I can no longer be there to protect him and be his best friend.  My heart shattered.  I had beaten him up emotionally because I am not ready or able to say goodbye.  I know that day is not today, but being reminded of its certainty was a bitter pill to swallow.  I pray that I have the fortitude to sort all this out before the day finally comes when I must really tell him goodbye.  On that day, I swear that I will stand with him shoulder to shoulder and acknowledge him as my better and wish him the kind of joy in life that he has given me.  And so ended our ski trip.  My son learned to ski, the wife got a free dermabrasion and I learned how to be a father. R.