Spring Skiing With Spyderman and Spiffy

April 3, 2005

By Lyin' Judy Bridger

     The last weeks of the ski season up here are a liar’s paradise, I am telling you.  The rookie pass holders are out—as it turns out, they are the last of them, according to the new rules—and they are so happy to be here, and so giddy with their new gear and such, why, they’ll believe just about anything you tell ‘em, which makes it easy and fun for a gal like me.
     My girlfriend Spiffy, who is about as smart as a sack of hammers, God bless her idiot heart, has never caught on, which tells you something about her as well as something about me. Spiffy has bright orange hair that sticks out under her hat, making it easy to see her on a ski slope. I got to hand it to the girl: The Good Lord blessed her with natural ability in all the physical arts and she loves to show off.
     (For that reason—I am talking about all the physical arts—I try to shield her as best I can from the snowboard wolf pack. So far, so good. If the snow hand’t have stopped falling this spring, though, I wouldn’t have bet the ranch on her.)
     All this reminds me of a day a coupla weeks ago, after the last big snow.
     Older fella is standing on top of the hill with a bright red Spyder jacket, matching pants, no helmet, new Oakley goggles and a pair of million-dollar skis he bought from a 19-year-old, pimple-faced kid from Sport Chalet somwhere down in the urban wilderness. He said they were clearing out the store or something. Anyways, the skis are about 10-to-15 cm. too long for him and didn’t anybody tell this guy about how the new skis work?
    “Nice slats,” says I, eyeballing his ridiculously long—and expensive—skis and lying through my teeth, as usual.
    “Hey thanks!” says the rube.
    Spiffy studied the guy’s skis.
    “They sure are a pretty color,” she says, and I roll my eyes behind my shades.
    “Color is the most important thing,” says I to Spiffy, and I can’t believe that she is nodding her head. “That and the computer-chip shock absorption system that’s built into ‘em.”
    “Huh?” she says.
    “Never mind, Dearie,” says I.  “It’s why they cost a cool million.”
    “Really?” says Spiffy and now you see why I love her so.
     Anyways, I can see that the rube’s bindings are the NEOX EBM 412s from Atomic, which monitor whether or not you’re locked in properly.  If you are, an LCD screen on top of the binding shows an “OK.” It also plays an old Allman Brothers tune if you pay extra. If you’re not locked in properly, the LCD screen tells you to maybe find something else to do that day, like hike the Tablelands.
    The bindings cost $1,000 alone. Or something like that.
    “Why can’t you just take bindings to a ski shop and have them check them out for free?” Spiffy asks. Her eyes curl around at the edges when she poses a question. I pat her on the shoulder.
    “You can, Dear Heart, but Outside Magazine needs more than that.”
    “Huh?” she says.
    “Hey! That’s where I saw all about these bindings!” says the rube, at which point I roll my eyes again. This time of year, it’s almost a habit. Lucky I wear shades.
    Anyways, so we’re on top of the Hill with Spyderman. Warm day, the sun climbing high in the sky.
    “Let’s grab some of this dreamy corn,” says I to Spiffy. “It’ll be the last corn run of the year for me, probably.”
    Spiffy eyed me suspiciously.
    “Oh don’t get weird on me, Dearie.  It’s just that I’m planning to go over to Yosemite Valley as soon as the pass opens. See what’s what at Camp 4.”
     And this point, Spyderman says, in that know-it-all way, “You could almost ski over to Half Dome, though. Look!” 
     He pointed to the West.
     There, basking in the sun in the distance, was Balloon Dome, which ain’t Half Dome, and which ain’t anywhere near the Valley, but which rubes on top of Mammoth Mountain can’t seem to get through their heads.
    “I just might do that!” I lied.
    Spyderman looked to his bindings for the weather report, barometric pressure reading, a GPS report and an update from CNN.
    Spiffy looked him over, then looked at me, and had nothing to say.