Shtepping Around With Hoobert

I'd been hearing about stem Christies for 20 years, how much fun they are, how they are easy once you lose your fear, etc. And all the propaganda was right. One's first stem Christy is equivalent to the first time one makes a golf ball go "click" on a drive, or serves a big tennis ace or curves a baseball. It feels right. For the rest of the day no force on earth could keep me from doing stem Christies. Traverse smoothly, uphill ski a little forward; stem the uphill ski, shift the weight, bring the skis close together and S-L-I-D-E through the turn.

SIXTH DAY: I decided to spend this day with the kids and fight down the desire to abandon them and do stem Christies all day. As I laced up four pairs of boots once again, I noticed a drop of red on the floor. It was blood oozing from my hand, where the nylon laces had cut through. Finally all the layers of clothes were in place, and we mushed our way toward the slopes. This was the coldest day of all—10�—and a high wind whipped snow and bits of ice into our faces. All of the children were wearing goggles, wool hats that pulled down on their foreheads and up on their chins, parkas with hoods, mittens, two sweaters, turtlenecked long-sleeved skiing shirts, long underwear, ski pants, light socks and Himalayan socks, all of which left only their noses exposed. "My nose is too cold" became the slogan for the morning. Evan's goggles fell off, and when he took off his mittens to fumble with the goggles his hands became numb, and by the time I came to his rescue his goggles were covered with ice. Each problem like this took about five minutes to solve, and it suddenly occurred to me that there was no sport in the world where you have to fool with clothing as much as you do in skiing. Everyone is working constantly, pulling and tugging and zipping and tucking and lacing and tugging and pulling and zipping. You could get a good day's exercise just dressing for the sport. I am now inclined to agree with a friend of mine who says that no child should be permitted on a ski slope until he can handle all his own clothes without help. If you want the ultimate in frustration, imagine dressing three little children in all the aforementioned clothing, taking them halfway up a hill for a ski lesson and then hearing one of them say, "I have to go to the bathroom!" When this happened to me I threw in the towel. "Hey, kids," I said. "What d'ya say we go back to the chalet and play Parcheesi?"

"Hooray!" they said, happy to get out of the cold. I sneaked back to the mountain and worked on my stem Christies. Nothing could stop me now.

SEVENTH DAY: Rain.

EIGHTH DAY: Rain.

NINTH DAY: Rain again, and little Barrie and I made one last attempt to ski before going home. We found a patch of wet ice at the base of the intermediate hill, and she stepped around while Hoobert held her up. I couldn't resist some final heroics (we were in full view of the jammed lodge) and backed off for a run down the ice. Somewhere in midrun I discovered that ice is even faster than snow, but then I hit a mud spot and lurched out of control and into the nearest refuge, which happened to be Hoobert and Barrie. Down we went in a tangle of poles and skis and hysterics. Finally Hoobert quieted me, and we took off our skis for the last time and bade him farewell. On the way home, we ran into the inevitable snowstorm that I now understand always accompanies frustrated skiers at the conclusion of a trip. I asked Evan what he had learned on the trip, and he said he had learned that it takes a 5 to enter in Parcheesi. Julie said she had learned the snowplow and five words of German: bitte, danke, ja, nein and allo. Barrie said she had to go to the bathroom. All of us agreed that Hoobert must miss us terribly.