Summary

A high school student recounts his experience of learning to ski through a self-organized, unsanctioned ski club that included clandestine bus trips with underage drinking and ended with the school disavowing any association after an accident.

Abstract

The narrative describes the author's high school years in Buffalo, NY, where he and his friends formed an independent ski club. Every Wednesday, they rented a bus, secretly brought a keg of beer, and traveled to Kissing Bridge Ski Resort, unbeknownst to their parents and school. Despite the lack of formal ski instruction beyond the basics, the author taught himself to ski on the resort's slopes. The group's escapades, including a member named Vince who skied into a concrete support while intoxicated, eventually led to the school's disassociation from the club after Vince's injury brought it to their attention. The author reflects on these experiences as some of the best times of his life, emphasizing the freedom and excitement of those Wednesday nights.

Opinions

The author views the ski club trips as a highlight of his youth, filled with excitement and camaraderie.
There is a sense of nostalgia for the carefree nature of these adventures, especially in contrast to the lack of sports activities in his family.
The author seems to hold a humorous and light-hearted perspective on the underage drinking and the school's lack of awareness, presenting it as a rite of passage rather than irresponsible behavior.
The story of Vince, the boy who always wore shorts and was often the most inebriated, is told with a mix of amusement and concern, highlighting the recklessness of youth.
The author is proud of his self-taught skiing abilities, which he developed through perseverance and despite initial challenges.
There is an underlying tone of defiance and independence, as the group continued their activities despite the school's disapproval, simply agreeing not to associate with the school officially.

Snow and Beer

How I Learned to Ski — Lessons From the Mountain

When I was in high school I learned to ski. A group of us had formed a ski club. After our first venture to the local Kissing Bridge Ski Resort, the high school disavowed any connection to our existence. More about that is below.

Every Wednesday we all met in the high school parking lot. We all chipped in and rented a bus to take us there and back. This went on for two years.

Our parents who dropped us off at the school and picked us up later at night had no idea we were not sanctioned by the school. They had no idea we had a full keg of beer on the bus even though we were all underage. And they had no idea half of the group was female.

Simply, neither our parents nor the school had any idea we were having one hell of a blast every Wednesday night. The bus driver never said a word but I am pretty sure he thought we are all crazy to some extent.

Our First Skiing Trip

Living in Buffalo, NY we pretty much had snow from October/November to April/May. Often we didn’t have just snow, we had lots of snow. Squalls. Blizzards. Lots of snow.

Meeting in the parking lot we stood around in the dark of night waiting for the bus and for the parents to leave. Then we loaded the keg onto the bus, and our gear, and ourselves. As the bus headed off into the darkness of night, snow swirling around, the keg would be tapped in the back. The party was on for the 45-minute trip to the ski resort.

Arriving at the resort parking lot, just envision 30+ high school kids literally falling out of the bus, laughing and yelling, in the midst of a snowstorm. And our parents had no idea.

Vince

There was this one guy from school, an Italian kid named Vince who made a name for himself because he always wore shorts. And he was usually the drunkest of all of us, which eventually caught up to him.

One night during a snowstorm he was skiing downhill and too late realized the huge concrete support for the ski lift wouldn’t move out of his way. Wouldn’t budge. Even when he hit it full impact. Wouldn’t budge. Vince found himself on a stretcher with a broken leg and something bleeding somewhere.

With a thumbs up and a big smile, he was loaded onto a helicopter to be airlifted back to Buffalo and to the hospital. He was wearing his shorts and a t-shirt.

Learning to Ski

Some of the classmates on the bus could ski. I had always wanted to learn but could never get anyone in my family to take me. Our family was not a sports-minded family … well, except for me.

The first Wednesday night at this resort I signed up for lessons and rented skis. The lessons consisted of teaching us how to turn and how to stop or at least control our speed downhill. Then the instructor announced we were off to the “bunny hill”. That marked the end of my lessons.

Taking a tow rope up to the top of the Intermediate hill turned out to be a learning experience in and of itself. Every time I grabbed the rope, it yanked me forward and I’d faceplant into the snow. It took me a while to negotiate that rope tow.

Stop laughing. There’s more.

Once I got to the top of that Intermediate hill I looked down. My first thought was “shit”. It was also my second and third thought. Silently praying, I pushed off downhill. Trying what the instructor had shown us, I did this “snowplow thing” with the ski tips pointed inward. “That will slow me down,” I thought to myself, as I gained more speed downhill.

It didn’t.

Now halfway down, going full speed and straight downhill, I was trying to slow my speed and still remain upright. The good news was, I remained upright, as miraculous as that seemed. The bad news was, I was gaining speed.

Having played baseball my entire life as a kid, it occurred to me since I couldn’t even slow myself let alone stop, to make like I was sliding into home plate with the winning run. As I approached the bottom, and the waiting line for the lift, I dropped and slid feet-first, yelling as loud as I could for these people in line to move.

They did.

But this first run was not close to being over. When they parted in front of me was the parking lot. Being Wednesday night in a blizzard of sorts, there weren’t many cars. I missed them all. But I couldn’t miss the closed doors to the garage at the resort. That is when and how I finally stopped.

I spent the remainder of the night perfecting my slide. Eventually, I learned to stop, to slow, to turn… and even got good enough that I could ski the big slopes, all entirely self-taught.

The High School and our Ski Club

Back to the disavowal of our club and any connection to the school I promised I’d get to. When Vince broke his leg, then the school found out and started looking into our club. We were told we could not associate our club with the school.

OK.

That was it. Because we paid for everything and organized everything ourselves, we just had to promise to not associate ourselves with the school. Parents were never contacted and nobody ever knew about the beer, the parties on the bus, nothing about what was one of the best times of my life, repeated every Wednesday through two winters.

And of course, Vince still went on the bus with his broken leg. I met a cute girl who became my skiing bud, and then some, every Wednesday.

Life was good back in the 60s.

The end.