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Cheryl Hughes: The Garey Hughes Memorial Ski Lodge

When my husband, Garey, and I were younger—much, much younger—we would take the occasional ski trip.  I’ve never been much of an athlete, but skiing came easier for me than other sports.  Garey is naturally athletic, so he caught on rather quickly.  Neither of us skied well enough to be considered anything past novice, but we had a great deal of fun on the slopes.  There was one trip, however, that eclipsed all the others.
    We took a trip to Virginia.  The ski resort was located in a small town in the Shenandoah Valley.  It was a beautiful place with very nice accommodations, but the winter had been mild that season, and the resort had to bring in snow machines in order to fill in grassy patches on the slopes.  On that first day, we looked the situation over and decided to sight see while the slopes were being finished.  We went to the Johnny Appleseed restaurant and drove across the mountainous ridge line that runs adjacent to the Shenandoah Valley.  It was a wonderful day, and we retired early that evening so we could get a jump on the skiing the following morning.  
    The skiing was great that next day.  The slopes were covered with a nice powder.  In order to get our ski legs back under us, Garey and I did a few runs on the bunny slope then rode the chair lift up to the intermediate slope, avoiding altogether advanced slopes with names like, “Dead Man’s Drop” and “White Lightening.”  We met some really nice people, including an older gentleman, who agreed to meet up with us again the following morning.
    The next morning, I could barely move my body, despite having spent an extended session in the hot tub the night before, so I decided to sit out the first run. The ski lodge was situated at the bottom of the mountain, at the point where all the slopes converged, and it contained a roaring fire and hot coffee, plus huge glass windows.  I decided to sit it out there, where I would be cozy and have a great view of Garey and our new friend sashaying down the slope.
    According to Garey, when he and the older gentleman got off the chair lift, the snow machines were going wide open on the intermediate slope.  “I’m not skiing through that mess,” the man remarked as he turned toward the slope marked, “White Lightening.”
    “Go ahead.  I’ll follow you,” Garey told the old gentleman.
    They started down the mountain just as they had planned, one behind the other, but the slope quickly steepened.  For those of you who don’t know, the reason skiers come down a hill in a zigzag pattern is in order to slow themselves down and maintain some degree of control.  There are a couple of oddities inherent to the word “control”: 1. You have to have it before you can maintain it, and 2. It is very easily lost.  Garey quickly found himself in the “very easily lost” category. 
    As Garey began to pick up speed, he reminded himself of the pointers he had picked up from ski instructors through the years.  “Stay in the athletic position,” he told himself, “Knees and elbows bent, lower is better.” 
    He remembered quite correctly.  The problem became that the lower his body went, the lower it kept going, until half-way down the slope, he had taken the downhill-racing-tuck position that Olympic skiers use to set world speed records.  Garey blazed past the old gentleman, the snowboarders, the ski patrol—probably a Yeti or two—and was headed for the bottom of the hill and the split rail fence in front of the building where I was watching.   
    My first thought was, “Oh my God!  That’s Garey!”
My second thought was, “Thank God, I didn’t go up there.”
My third thought was more of a snapshot.  I saw a plaque with the words, The Garey Hughes Memorial Ski Lodge, imprinted on it.
When he hit the moguls (small mounds of hard snow) at the foot of the hill, I didn’t think he would ever stop tumbling, but finally inertia caught up with him.  I breathed a sigh of relief as Garey picked himself up and began gathering the things he had lost during the fall—skis, goggles, hat, dignity. 
The old gentleman skied up to where Garey was standing.  “No you won’t,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Garey was puzzled by his comment.
“You won’t follow me.  There’s no way I’m coming down that mountain like that.  I’ll tell you one thing, though,” he continued, “If you ever get your control down, you’re gonna be one helluva skier!”
Garey was pleased with this vote of confidence.  It almost made up for his black eye, torn ski jacket and aversion to snow cream for the next few years. 
I was pleased that the lodge got to keep the name with which it was christened, and Garey and I were able to return home with only a few bruises.

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