WIT STOP

I Have Nothing Against Having Fun in Frozen Precipitation. But a Ski Resort? Snow, Thanks

Arizona is hardly noted for its snow. It's more renowned as a hot weather, desert, sunshiny state. That's why you rarely see Christmas cards featuring a snow-covered lizard. It's also why Santa's sleigh is pulled by jackalopes and not reindeer.

But snow is there for those who want it. There's crosscountry skiing at the Flagstaff Nordic Center, at Hart Prairie and Wing Mountain near the San Francisco Peaks, at Pole Knoll in the White Mountains, and other places. There's downhill skiing at Flagstaff, the Sunrise Ski Area, Williams Ski Area, and also at Mount Lemmon Ski Valley, the southernmost skiing region in the United States.

Yes, snow is there for those who want it. Me? I don't want it. I have nothing against frozen precipitation, mind you, and in fact envy those who are fond of frolicking in it. It's simply not my weather condition of choice.

I was raised in the northeastern part of the country where we had a goodly share of winter storms each year. Like most kids, I used to look forward to the first flurry. I'd be thrilled to see the first few flakes fall. I'd be ecstatic when they'd coat the ground and trees with a white veneer. I'd beg my mom to let me go out and frolic. That's when my fun ended.

Certainly Mom would let me go out and play, but only when I was properly dressed, so that I wouldn't "catch my death of cold." First Mom would dress me in long underwear, sometimes two sets for added insulation. Two sets of woolen socks, too, to keep my toes toasty warm. Thankfully, one flannel shirt was enough, but it had to be overlayed with a couple of sweaters. Again, for added insulation. A pair of heavy trousers corduroy was preferred were de rigueur. All of this was covered by a snowsuit that zippered from my ankles to my chin and a heavy hat with earflaps that snapped beneath my chin to protect me from the chilling winds. Then Mom forced shoes and clumsy galoshes over my double-socked feet. Only then was I planted in the snow like a cross between a scarecrow and the Pillsbury Doughboy. I couldn't frolic. I couldn't even move.

Making a snowman was out of the question because I couldn't bend over to reach the snow. I had so many layers of protective clothing on that my hands couldn't reach one another. There was no way I could pat the snow into a firm ball, so I was eliminated from the friendly skirmishes. Instead, the other kids used me as a target.

My childhood fun in the snow consisted of two hours of getting suit-ed up, one half hour of standing immobile in the drifts, and two hours of getting undressed.

My adult fun in the snow was equally traumatic. Because I felt deprived, I wanted my youngsters to experience the fun of winter sports. I wanted them to know the thrill of getting clipped on the ear with a whizzing snowball, the exhilaration of having a shovelful of frozen slush dropped down the back of your mackinaw, the excitement of having your face washed with cold, wet sludge. So we rented a cabin at a ski resort.

The kids' first adventure was to tear up pieces of a cardboard box and use them as snowboards to glide down the huge hill outside our cabin. They had tons of fun doing it, but their amusement wouldn't be complete unless Dad did it, too.

"What do I do?" I asked.

They said, "Just sit on this piece of cardboard. We'll do the rest."

So I sat, and they pushed.

They pushed hard enough to get even for all the times I sentenced them to their rooms, demanded that they finish their homework before going out to play, and made them eat all the food on their plates. They pushed hard enough to send me sailing down the slope at a speed that I considered unsafe.

I held on for dear life to the cardboard under my bottom, as if that could do anything to protect me. I heard the kids yelling after me, "Dad, stop before you hit the . . ."

Splash!

There was a creek at the bottom of this incline. It was a cold creek. It was a wet creek. It was a creek that now became part of me from the waist down.

The kids thought my fanny flop was hilarious, but not nearly as side-splitting as the funny little walk I had as I marched back up the slope.

Maybe my mom was right. Around snow I was safer immobilized.

Yes, there's plenty of snow in Arizona for those who want it. Me? I prefer to stay within a snowball's throw of a saguaro cactus.

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