I promised Alpine. Here’s to Alpine! After being dumped by everybody else who said they would come (you peeps know who you are), the gutsy Rhenee and I, after some initial waffling, hemming, and I guessing, went out to Mont Rigaud for the afternoon. The weather was a balmy –10°C and the single quad chairlift was running up the side of Mount Crumpet with its load…to dump it (‘K, no more Dr. Seuss, promise). The deadly T-bar was also in operation, but I am unwilling to risk life and limb on one of those fandangled contraptions unless absolutely necessary (basically only if it’s what’s standing between me and Uncle Herbert’s Goulash). Christine and Robbie, who have skied with me in Austria, know whereof I speak, and why I’m terrified of T-bars.
Suckers! WIMPS! Ye of little faith! Rhenee and I had a BLAST! We zipped gleefully up and down for a solid three hours, as the shots on Rhenee’s cell phone camera will prove (ha! thought I didn’t have proof, eh?). On the chairlift we were grinning to each other in self-congratulatory smugness at how clever we were in picking such a perfect day for getting our ski legs back. Smarmy, I know. The lineup was almost non-existent and the lift operated mostly smoothly – kids kept falling off it for some reason – I have no idea why. I only had to carry the one dropped pole up with me after all. Trails were well endowed with nicely groomed packed granular, with nary an ice patch to be seen (thankfully, since I never did get around to sharpening my edges last week). I don’t suppose that Rigaud is high enough for ice anyway.
Only once did we have to warm up our toesies.
Only once did I wipe out.
Um.
At the bottom of wee little Mont Rigaud.
In the parking lot (well practically).
Get used to it. I always wipe out once, weirdly, unpredictably, when I least expect it. Surprise! No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!
So there.
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