mont-ste-marie | outdoors

After waking at the crack of dawn (re: 7AM), I was fighting car sickness by napping. From the seat directly in front of me, my dad navigated the winding roads of Highway 105. My eyes were shut, but my ears weren't, so I clearly heard him read the Volvo's thermometer: "It's minus twenty-five". I squinted my eyes tightly and continued to pretend to sleep, reminiscent of the days when I would coax a piggyback ride to my room from the car after Sunday night dinners with my grandparents by refusing to admit I was actually awake.

I did not want to ski.

The vast majority of my newly minted law school friends were in New York City for the weekend. I was not. That was fine, I was in Ottawa visiting my parents with Chris. Unfortunately, a few weeks prior, I had been infected with Chris' enthusiasm for a day of downhill and agreed to a day at Mont-Ste-Anne. Chris had brought his skis on the train to Ottawa and whipped my parents in similar frenzy. On the other hand, I had since seen the light (and the weather forecast)... See prior blog post.

I tried to put up the usual fight ("I'm not feeling well! It's too cold! I'll be exhausted for the drive back to Kingston!"). But of course, as always, I spent Saturday night collecting the necessary ski-items, piece-meal style, preparing for skiing on Sunday.

Ten minutes before 10AM, we were skating up to the Vanier chairlift for our first run. Luckily, the sun was shining and the wind was non-existent. And, most importantly, the mountain was covered in powdery goodness.

Vanier lift... note: this is only a small part of the lift. Chris told me the hill is about twice the vertical height of Blue Mountain. 

I didn't take me long to remember why I love to ski. It's oddly collegial and independent at the same time. Automatism sets in and your mind wonders. In my case, a song will get stuck in my head. Or I'll create the plot to a story I'll never write. Or I'll think up imaginary conversations with high school friends I haven't seen in years. Or I'll pretend I'm on Ellen ("I never dreamed I would be here!"). A few minutes later, you're on your way back up, chatting with your chair-mates ("How good was that run, eh? Good thing it's not colder, eh?"). It's great stuff.

Even greater: My mom's chilli, dished out from a thermos my dad purchased the day before (I swear, our house eats our things). As my toes thawed, I savoured the mushrooms. In my head, I was calculating my cost per run, an annoying habit I picked up from my grandpa (after two runs: "we're down to fifteen bucks per run, guys!").

chilli!

On Sunday, the tickets had cost us twenty-nine dollars each since my parents had thought to pick up tickets at Costco instead of getting them at the hill. By lunch, I had completed 7 runs (a little over 4 dollors per run!). However, lunch was already my second break. I like to blame my low threshold for cold weather on inheriting bad circulation from my dad.

main lodge at MSM

Thankfully, the chilli warmed me up nicely for the afternoon. A lazy fifteen minutes behind my parents, Chris and I boarded the rusting tram for a ride to Cheval Blanc, Mont Ste Marie's second lift. As is usual for a Sunday, one run was reserved for racers. The sight of ski racers always prompts my dad: "I really wanted you to be a ski racer!" I remind him that I probably wouldn't have gone to Queen's Commerce and/or law school had I pursued that dream...

That afternoon, we complete five runs, bringing our total to fourteen (two and a half dollars per run!). I'm sure my parents would have stayed longer, but by two o'clock, I'm reminding them of their promise to have me on the road to Kingston by six.

I napped the entire way to Ottawa, my head on Chris' lap. As always, the morning's pain had been worthwhile and I was looking forward to reading week when I get to do it all over again.