Shtepping Around With Hoobert

The day was wet and warm, which made the snow perfect for beginners, and we happily threw ourselves into the custody of our instructor, a wonderfully patient young Austrian whom I shall call Hoobert, since that is the way his name is pronounced. In less than 30 minutes we had all got into our rented skis and had begun the course of instruction that was to lead us, en masse, to the very edge of skiing greatness. The first technique we were to master was what our instructor called "shtepping around," and we did beautifully. He walked ahead of us, taking tiny steps of three or four inches; the kids followed him and I brought up the rear. "Dot's da vay," Hoobert would shout. "Shtep right along!" All morning long we kept this up. We were practicing at the runout of an intermediate slope, and every now and then some skier would schuss right past us with a superior look on his face. "Never mind," I said to myself. "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single shtep."

Still and all, I could have done without this one particular skier, who kept roaring down the hill and slamming to a stop right in front of our single-file caravan, throwing up a shower of ice and snow like Bobby Hull. I felt like punching him right in the mouth; but I held off, as he appeared to be in excellent condition for a little kid.

By day's end we not only had mastered the art of stepping around, but had made a few tentative glides on the slope. Plainly, Julie, 10, the oldest, was going to be the star. She just hauled off and skied down the hill without any suggestion from anybody. Evan, 7, required some encouragement, and Barrie, 5, said she would like to spend more time stepping around. Modesty forbids a description of my own progress, but let me hint that I was not far behind the kids by the end of the first day. The important thing was: we were skiing! And those phonies at the office had tried to create the impression that it was difficult.

Late in the day rain put an end to our lessons, and that night I overheard an ominous conversation at the community dinner table. "The ski patrol will have a busy time tomorrow," said a man.

"Why?" said another.

"With this rain it'll turn to slush, and these skiers are out of shape. That slush'll snap their legs like matchsticks."

"No doubt about it."

"Did you see that mark in the snow today?"

"Yeh."

"Was that real blood?"