After Little Boy’s first big skiing vacation in France over New Years, his nascent skiing skills have since been sharpened by a half-dozen day trips to the piddly mountains of Massachusetts. For a 3-year old, Little Boy has a solid snowplow, decent turning prowess, great balance, stellar endurance, and most importantly, a liking for the overall skiing experience. So for President’s Day weekend, we decided he was ready for New Hampshire skiing in all of its icy, frigid glory.
We left Saturday morning, after a flurry of activity that involved a madcap search for various skiing gear that hasn’t been used since last winter (e.g.., my helmet, Mr. P’s XC skating boots). For some reason, the only toys Little Boy wanted to take were stuffed animals, which he rarely plays with at home (unless he’s binding them together with rubber bands or hauling them over chairs with makeshift pulleys). He carefully arranged them on his lap and promptly fell asleep.
Road Trip (Born to Be Tired)
He awoke as we were exiting the highway for the 20+ minute drive to Waterville Valley Nordic Center. I tried explaining that today, we weren’t going to do our normal skiing; that Mommy and Daddy would be skiing on little skis on little trails in the woods, and Little Boy would get to sit in a sled. He didn’t fully understand this until we arrived and showed him the pulk that we rented:
Probably the only smile in the Pulk
He was game, at first. Unfortunately, the XC conditions this winter are dismal, and we couldn’t access the best parts of the trail system without taking a shuttle. So we stuck close to the Center, taking turns pulling the pulk, which was tricky. On uphills, it was predictably laborious; on downhills, the pulk would push you faster, so much so that I declined to take it downhill for fear my abductor muscles couldn’t muster the requisite power to brake. This didn’t bother Mr. P and he headed his usual full speed; I could see the bright-blue sled zooming through the trees.
So it shouldn’t have surprised me, after one steep downhill, when I turned around to see the pulk arriving to a stop on its side and to hear a screaming Little Boy from within. We hurried unzipped the cover and pulled him out. He was fine, of course, but terrified. It took some convincing and bribery to get him back into the pulk after that.
Pulling Daddy in the Pulk
Mr. P's Turn
After a few hours, we got back in the car and headed north to the Hampton Inn in Littleton, which offers a pretty sweet Ski and Stay package that we took advantage of last year. Plus… a pool! A jacuzzi! We practically had to drag Little Boy out of the pool for dinner.
For our discounted lift tickets, we could choose between Bretton Woods and Cannon Mountain, so we decided to go to child-friendly Bretton Woods on Sunday and then hit treacherous Cannon on our way back on Monday. It took Little Boy a few hours to warm-up to the idea of skiing; he kept asking to go back to the hotel to play in the pool. I finally made it very clear that we were there to ski, that if we went back to the hotel now we wouldn’t go to the pool but take naps, and that we would go swimming after we were finished skiing. He then relaxed and started get into skiing. We found a nice Blue trail with lots of little snow bumps on the side (he loves “jumping”) that ended at a mid-mountain lift that never had a line. This kept us occupied for two full hours, and then we headed back to the lodge for a quick snack before the final hour:
People watching at Bretton Woods
Cannon Mountain is an intimidating mountain. The terrain is steep, icy, and filled with lightening-fast experts (Bode Miller learned to ski there). Some of its Blue trails make me quake. I was unsure about taking Little Boy there, but it really is a great place to ski, with its terrific views, wooded trails, and friendly folks. My big mistake was letting Mr. P take his snowboard, which meant I had to take Little Boy between my legs on steep trails that he didn’t want to do by himself. Skiing with a small child between your legs is fine on the bunny slopes, but on an icy, narrow Blue trail at Cannon Mountain, it’s a little hard on the muscles.
So there I was, headed down a Blue trail hunched over Little Boy between my legs — which were screaming in agony — as I took long turns across the trail, trying to avoid large spots of ice. Everything was okay until, well, we were coming across the trail and my shaky snowplow wasn’t slowing us down enough to safely turn, so I decided to ski the little uphill on the side of the trail in hopes we’d come to a stop. As we ascended the bank on the side of the trail, I quickly realized we weren’t going to stop and would continue into the trees if I didn’t act. In a split-second, I let go of Little Boy and pushed him safely into the snow before trying to turn myself away from the trees. That’s how I ended up with my left ski hooked onto a bush as I dangled helplessly upside, half-laying on the snow bank. Luckily, the only person there to witness this fiasco was Mr. P, laughing uproariously on his stupid snowboard (he later said it was like watching “America’s Funny Videos”). He comforted Little Boy before freeing my ski from the bush, allowing me to drop face-first into the snow. Before I could demand it, Mr. P offered to go to the car and get his skis. But oh… that incident will surely become a family skiing legend, told and re-told over pizza after long days of skiing fun.
Apres-ski Coloring
Moose!
