Skiing with Children

Ah friends. Let me explain this large bruise on the inside of my right calf.

It is from a tree.

A few years ago, I had this bright idea to take my young nephew skiing. He liked it, and a small tradition was born. This was great! We could spend time together, I could coach him ("Make a pizza! Wedge! Snowplow! Turn!"), we could take in a little sun over the course of a dreary winter, and I could end each evening in front of a roaring fire, feet draped over a comfy couch, warming beverage in hand.

One too many days in ski school later, my beloved nephew gleefully led me down an unmarked trail he fondly calls Dilly-Dally Alley. Now, lest you picture in your head an alley such as the sane know them (i.e., straight, paved, void of vegetation), take that picture and fill it up with trees, curves, and bumps. Not just the occasional tree, but trees left and right and center; not just curves, but wish-I-were-wearing-a-helmet maneuvers you don't even see on a bmw commercial; and not just bumps, but rollercoaster-style swoons that take you up and down and up and down in less distance than the length of your skis. I can only describe it as skiing your way through a life-sized ice cube tray that has been twisted and turned and dipped in snow and dotted vociferously with life-sized trees, all in a vain attempt to keep up with an 8 year old who has much shorter skis and not nearly as much gravity-driven velocity.

Thus my encounter with a pine tree that apparently had my name on it. And thus, the bruise.

Next year, Dilly-Dally Alley had better lead straight to a spa weekend...