Dad and Allie Go Skiing

It had been over a week since I'd last seen my kid. She'd been away at her mom's, so when I got her at day care and tossed her gently into the air, her giggles were, to me, unbounded delight--a sort of fuel that shot us, giddy and singing, out of Portland and on up the road toward the white peak of Mount Hood.

"Daddy, it's slippery! The snow is slippery!"

"We're going skiing!" I shouted. "Skeeting!" said Allie. She was only two-and-a-half and, I soon learned, still not entirely clear as to what you were actually supposed to do with those slender cross-country skis that had loomed sphinx-like next to our Christmas tree. At the edge of the parking lot, I set her down on the trail and instantly she shrieked, terror-stricken: "Daddy, it's slippery! The snow is slippery!"

I undid her bindings, her boots and her mittens; wiped away the tears and the dribbles of snot. And then we limped to a gas station to have some hot cocoa. We huddled by the window, watching a blizzard gust in, and I realized that, truly, mine was a delicate enterprise -- I was trying to trick my kid into tolerating an activity steeped in grown-up absurdity. I love the abandon of cross-country skiing, the thrill of chucking your skis down on the snow and letting 'em run into the wilderness. But the wilderness is cold; it's scary and dangerous. What dog in his right mind would go there?

Training on the carpet

Back home, we trained on the carpet, gliding past the bathroom with poles flailing. For weeks, we showed off Allie's still-gleaming skis to all visitors, even the mail man. One morning, I awoke to find all the stars in alignment. It was sunny and warm. Allie was in good humor and the cupboard, thank God, held an ample stash of hot cocoa powder--enough to fill up a Thermos. We sailed off toward Mount Hood.

Jumping into the action

The drive took two hours this time, and consumed roughly three quarts of cocoa, but when at last we arrived, the trails were bursting with life. There were kids Allie's age in pink parkas, old geezers snowplowing, snowboarders replete with pierced tongues. Everywhere, people were gliding on snow. A pageant was happening and Allie wanted, as any kid would, to jump into the action. She skeeted. Yes, five or six slow, shuffling traverses of a flat 30-foot patch and one wildly inspired leap into a snow bank. All this sans poles (who needs poles anyway?), and with her father endlessly beckoning bystanders to take photos. The escapade lasted, all told, about 30 minutes, and then we were in the lodge, warming Allie's hands in mine and ordering french fries and daubing the ketchup off of her coat.

She slept all the way home, of course, and my mind drifted off. I remembered our first trip home, through the blizzard, and the way our little car swooped on the road. I was exhausted then, aching after pushing us out of a driveway, and I drove with both hands on the wheel. My knuckles were white as my foot pumped the brake. But still we made it down off the mountain. Our tires gripped, and Allie slept and the heater blasted and we drove on, the two of us on an adventure.

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