I’m sure many of you still remember the old Mt. Otsego Ski Area.
You turned off of Route 80 a mile or so beyond the Farmer’s Museum and drove out to the very end of civilization. They had a rope tow and a T-bar to get you up the mountain.
That’s where I started with old wooden skis and leather straps across the toes, but I learned to ski a few miles above Cooperstown. Every weekend a group of my friends and I would head out and pound down the slopes. They seemed so big back then.
And then Scotch Valley opened up in Stamford. Now that was a mountain. It even had a chair lift.
My skiing progressed. We’d get off the ski lift and race to the bottom as fast as we could. After all, we thought we had to get in as many runs as possible before the day ended.
But as we raced down the slopes every once in a while we’d fall.
Now it wasn’t because we caught the edge of a ski on a mound of snow or just happened to have a ski slide out on a piece of ice. And God forbid it wasn’t that we were skiing out of control or going too fast.
No, it was those darn snow snakes. Every ski area has them. They’d lie and wait just under the snow for some unsuspecting soul to come along and then they’d attack. They raised their evil tail through the packed powder and grab the leg of a skier who just happened to get too close to the monster’s lair.
They are terrible creatures. You would go head over heels and bounce along, covering yourself with snow because that darn snake decided it was your turn to fall.