Frostbite on the Zipline

Hey, I’m Canadian, eh? Like every other Canuck, I was born in a snow bunny suit with ice skates on my feet and mittens on my hands.

Sorry. I wasn’t. I was born in the Great White North, but my immigrant parents never caught the snow sport bug, so they didn’t pass it down to me. Still, I was born there, so I must love snow sports, eh? God knows, my home and native land tried its best to make a believer out of me.

The Neighborhood Yeti

At age four, when I wanted to go outside to play after a snowstorm, my mother bundled me up. By the time she tied the finishing touch, a hat with flaps, under my chin, I was as wide as I was tall. Immobilized by all the layers and my tiny T-Rex arms, I could only watch as my dad and brother built, not a benign Frosty-clone, but a monster. Dad marched to the tune of his own drum, so no snowman of his would ever be the usual three snowballs, a carrot nose, and twigs for arms. No, Dad’s attempt at realism resulted in a passable yeti with fully formed arms and legs, realistic enough to send anyone screaming. With that, I, tiny accessory to the creation of the neighborhood nightmare, began a fraught childhood relationship with winter recreation.

Mmmmmm — OW!

At six, I did what every kid does with fresh snow: I took a bite. Which would have been lovely, except the snow I chomped was on a metal fence, it was 8 degrees Fahrenheit, and you know the rest. It took an hour to melt my tongue off that fence and restore it, worse for wear, to my mouth.

Tubing

Losing a few skin cells still didn’t convince me that snow and I could never be friends. At age 10, I went tubing with friends. Tubing, if you grew up without snow, is loading as many kids as you can on a tractor-size inner tube. Then, a hard shove off the peak of the tallest, steepest hill you can find, and you’re off. Note: an inner tube does not go down a hill in a straight line like a toboggan. It whirls and twirls and bumps and jumps and tries to dump its cargo all over the hill, or, better yet, at the bottom in a tangle of arms and legs, as happened that day.

Skating

Unlike most kids I knew who could skate at age three, I never learned, so when neighbors flooded their yard and made a rink, the best I could do was an awkward slip-slide on snow boots. This changed when I went to winter camp at age 14 and finally learned to skate. Roller skate, that is. I came back from camp battered, bruised, and determined to take my new skating skills to the ice. Polished wood and Zamboni’d ice, four wheels and a single blade, are exactly the same, right? So, I rented skates at the City Hall rink, then circled the rink with all the finesse of a hippo on a tightrope.

At this point, I should mention that I am not the most graceful person. I fall off flats when walking, so if I strap on skates, snowshoes, or skis, it is likely I will not stay upright. Fortunately, snow is soft.

Unfortunately, ice is hard.

Skiing

As for skis, I never indulged downhill as heights and I don’t agree, but when I was 18, my best friend and I drove her smokin’ hot black Firebird with flames on the hood (I still miss that car) up to Lake Simcoe and rented cross-country skis. I figured, we were on flat ground so what could go wrong? We headed out through the woods, over a hill, and down to the lakeshore. Oh, my. Great fun until we found ourselves in the middle of the lake, the shore on the distant horizon. To this day, I can hear the groans the ice made each time we moved a ski. We glanced at each other, said, “Oh, shit,” and hightailed it back to shore. What? I‘m still here, aren’t I?

No thanks, I’ll stay here by the fire

Soon after that, I moved to Florida and then to California and, for a few years, encountered not one flake of snow. I didn’t miss it, either. Then, in the mid-80s, some work friends, my first husband, and I started a tradition of going up to Big Bear for white Christmas. Of course, I’d get carsick on the hairpin curves up the mountain and arrive Kermit-green each time, but fortunately, by then, I knew enough to stay off the ice rink or the slopes. Warm, dry, and safe, I spent the holidays catching up on videos by a roaring fire, then hurled my way home.

Frostbite on the zipline?

As for winter ziplining, while I did do a zipline tour in Big Bear, it was 80 degrees and steamy, even worse with all the gear. But, I had a great time. Roaring down progressively longer ziplines, I only yanked my arms out of their sockets once while braking at the end of the run. Hey, that’s a good thing! When ziplining, it is better to come in hot than brake too soon, slide back on the line, and hang, helpless as a turtle on its back, until someone reels you in. During the tour, I asked the guide about winter ziplining and he explained it was great fun, but frostbite and frozen ziplines were a real risk. He even shared a hair-raising anecdote.

Since a St. Bernard with a keg of brandy can’t climb that high, and since I’m well past my Canadian snow bunny days, I’ll pass.

Eh?