oopsie daisy

My Thoughts on the Alpine Meadows/Squaw Valley "Merger"

If you follow me on Twitter, you’re probably well aware of how much I love Alpine Meadows and how often I snowboard there. I grew up in San Francisco, so I’ve had a chance to ski and ride almost every resort in Lake Tahoe, but even as a kid, Alpine Meadows was one of my favorites. I loved the trees, loved the friendly staff (this matters when you’re stuck in ski school all day), loved the terrain, and loved that so many of my friends went there.

I’ll never forget Ski Week in 7th grade. My friend Marcella and I were very into skiing. But we were also VERY into finding cute boys. It was one of those magically warm Tahoe weeks and we skied without gloves or hats, our hair flying in the wind as we flew down the mountain. I even somehow convinced my mom to let me ski in jeans on the very last day. You have NO idea how cool I thought I was as I bombed through Hot Wheels Gully, showing off for whomever might be paying attention. (No one, but I was twelve, so I just assumed everyone.)

Fast forward to five years ago and my return to SF after fifteen years on the east coast. I was now a (brand new) snowboarder and free to ride wherever I want since my mother no longer paid for my lift tickets.  There was never a question in my mind where that would be and as soon as I joined my first ski house in 2007, I got an unfiltered (read: no black out days) pass for Alpine Meadows/Homewood. Obvi.

I was a pretty new snowboarder when I moved back to California and Alpine was the perfect place to learn. The fact that there are trees between most of the runs made me feel safe and very aware of my surrounding, which is key when you’re just starting to turn. The runs were groomed impeccably and my instructors were super friendly and great teachers. (Also: hot.)

Last year, when I launched a jump and crashed really badly, Alpine Meadows’ ski patrol and nurses took incredible care of me. Within seconds of falling, a staff member was on his radio and it less than three minutes before I was surrounded by people who were there to make sure I was safe and healthy. Later that night, Alpine employees tweeted and Facebook messaged me to check in and see how I was doing. My spine was fractured, but I didn’t know that yet. I was back out on the mountain the next day.

The injury was brutal, yes, but the snow last year was too good to let it stop me. I snowboarded at Alpine almost every weekend, including Easter weekend and even the 4th of July.

I’ve been snowboarding for four years now and I’ve gotten a pass at Alpine Meadows for each of those. Every year I’ve found something else I love about Alpine that I hadn’t discovered before: The hikes, the trees, the Ice Bar, Randy, James and Scott, Kate and her magic wand at Summit Chair, women-only clinics, the amazing super-friendly marketing team, hula hoop competitions, free socks, and did I mention the hikes, the trees, and the powder? Oh. And the rescue dogs! Tell me seeing a Golden Retriever rescue dog riding down the chair lift, heads on paws, BY HIMSELF, isn’t the cutest thing ever. No don’t. Because you’d be wrong.

Last year, on a cold, blizzarding Monday, I rode straight down the mountain in three feet of powder for the very first time. I want to say I felt like I was flying, but that description doesn’t do it justice. I’ve been going to the mountains since I was three years old, but I’d never experienced anything like this. It was totally overwhelming and I never wanted it to end. My adrenaline was threw the roof. And when I got back to the lift…I burst into tears. The first time in my entire life I’ve ever cried tears of happiness. It was amazing.

Everything I’ve just written doesn’t explain, however, why I was so disappointed this morning when I woke up to the news that Alpine Meadows merged with Squaw Valley, so let me explain.

Squaw Valley is known worldwide for its amazing terrain and steeps. It’s known locally for it’s snobby staff, corporate attitude, elitist clientele, incredibly long lift lines, and the fact that it gets skied out in moments. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to getting a drink in the Squaw Valley Village après ski, but only after I’ve enjoyed an awesome day at Alpine Meadows and paid a visit to the Alpine Bar to say hi to the bartenders who greet me by name.

Alpine Meadows is more of a locals’ mountain. The staff is super friendly. The vibe is chill. You can find stashes of powder days after a big storm. It’s exactly what I want when I’m trying to escape from the city and the chaos of life.


In addition, with an Alpine Meadows pass always came a Homewood pass. Homewood is the perfect place to go on a windy day when the lifts at Alpine (and Squaw) aren’t running. There are many things about Homewood that could be improved (mainly the chair lifts), but Homewood is even chiller than Alpine and doesn’t seem to get skied out-ever.

Now, assuming everyone who loved Squaw continued to ski at Squaw and everyone who loves Alpine continued to ski at Alpine, this merger wouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? The only bummer would be the loss of Homewood as part of your pass (as of next year), which would be sad, but not a deal breaker.

Unfortunately, my prediction is this:

Any time Squaw skiers think Squaw is going to be crowded (long weekends etc.), they will come to Alpine Meadows and create longer lift lines and chaotic runs.

Any time there’s a powder day, Squaw skiers will flee the three hour KT lift lines they experienced last year and come to Alpine. In addition, those who do go to Squaw in the morning, will abandon Squaw as soon as it’s all skied out. By eleven a.m., most likely.

This merger is AWESOME for people who love Squaw. And the reactions on Facebook and Twitter have shown me that Squaw skiers are stoked. This is only good for them. They get to ski on their favorite mountain and then come take advantage of mine when they’re “finished” with theirs for the day.

But I can’t see anything good about this merger for people who call Alpine Meadows their home mountain. I have no desire to ski at Squaw. I don’t like the vibe or the lift lines, and frankly, I’ll take High-T over KT any day.


Alpine Meadows promises that they’re going to work hard not to change the laid-back neighborhood vibe. But how much say will they really have now that KSL is in charge?

Mostly, I just hope I’m wrong and that this is a good move for everyone involved. It's possible, for sure. But I’ll believe it when I ski it.

Until then, thank you everyone at Alpine Meadows for some truly amazing years. You guys are the best and I'll never forget your hospitality and awesome snow.

Just a Hare Over the Line

This Easter, instead of going to church or hunting for eggs or waiting until midnight to go to Walgreens and buy Easter candy at half price, I chose to throw on a bunny costume and go snowboarding.

If you follow me on Twitter or are my friend on Facebook, you may have seen the pictures. I know my friend/co-worker, Abe, saw them because when I sat near him at the company's "All Hands" meeting this morning, this is the conversation we had:

Abe: I liked your Easter Bunny costume.

Me: Thanks.

Abe: It was like... Well, you know when... So, let me see how to say this... Okay. So, you know when a really fat person wears baggy clothes to hide how fat they really are?

Me: Yeah...

Abe: Your bunny costume totally did that for you.

The Aftermath

Seven weeks ago, to the day, I launched a jump on my snowboard and landed it with my back. I’ve never actually experienced pain worse than the moments and hours afterwards and that’s saying a lot because I got all of my pubic hair lasered off without using numbing cream, my ex-boyfriend was really into slapping me in the face during sex (I’d slap him back and “accidentally” hit him really hard in the ear. He always complained that I had bad aim. Clearly, he wasn’t that smart.), and my brothers used to put me in a cardboard box and push me down the stairs.

When I was getting taken off the mountain in a sled behind a snow mobile while strapped down to a backboard, the pain was so agonizing that it occurred to me that I might not be able to snowboard for the rest of the season. (Rest of my life?) Instead, after a lot of ice and an overdose-worthy amount of Motrin, I woke up the next morning and decided to go snowboarding. Screw the pain. I wanted to ride.

I then applied the same approach to pretty much everything in my life.

• Spin class? Yes, please! That agonizing pain that starts about thirty minutes into my workout? Nothing a bottle of wine won’t cure. (Seriously, there's nothing better than getting REALLY dehydrated during spin and then going straight to the bar. I highly recommend it.)

• High heels? Hell yeah. The higher the better. It doesn’t matter if each step feels like a dagger shooting through my spine. I’m taller. And hotter. Because limping is totally the new fake tits. 

• Lifting heavy things? Silly geese. I didn’t even do that before I got injured. That’s what boys are for. Duh.

• Running for the bus? Unfortunately, this one happens far more than I’d like. But I do run. And I do catch the bus. And then I sit in the handicapped/old people section and tell myself that if someone questions my shit, I’ll just force them to touch my back which is oddly sweaty after running a hundred yards and has morphed into a single throbbing, pulsing knot.

• Snowblowing and shoveling three feet of snow that’s covering the enormous driveway? Okay fine. I only do this because the boys in my ski house apparently hate me and therefore don’t or won’t, but I roar that snow blower to life and I blow the bejesus out of that snow. Nevermind that the snow blower doesn’t actually push itself like how it looks when someone else is doing it. (I know. I had no idea either!) 

• Tennis? Why not? Sure my back seizes up so badly that I end up lying down on the court for ten minutes afterwards, but please note the word “afterwards.” Yup. I will play for 90 minutes without letting my partner know it feels like a boa constrictor is wrapped around my back and slowly suffocating me. Because heaven forbid someone think I’m a wimp.

Okay fine. That last one was a bit too much, even for me. So after the tennis game from hell (my partner said “just one more rally” forty-five times until I was sure I was going to have to be airlifted out of there), I called my doctor and made an appointment.

Anyway, long story short: I get to the doctor yesterday. She takes one look at my back and goes, “Um, your vertebrae is sticking really far out and really far to the side of your spine” and then immediately drags my ass down some secret back stairs to see the orthopedist. Without an appointment!

Then the orthopedist makes me bend over (not like that), twist to the side, touch my toes, and some other stuff, tells me I have a compression fracture in my spine, wraps me up in a brace, tells me not to "do anything dumb,” and sends me on my way.

So anyway, yeah. That snowboarding fall I took in January? IT BROKE MY BACK. Oopsie!

And now I have to wear a back brace. Which isn't nearly as sexy as it sounded when Judy Blume wrote about it in "Deenie." I know. I was disappointed too.

A few thoughts about the back brace:

1. It acts like a corset. I can drink as much booze as I want because this thing sucks my tummy in harder than a fat chick at the public pool. Which is awesome because, according to my behavior last night, there’s nothing like finding out your broke your back and ignored it for seven weeks to make you want to drink.

2. It’s hard to parallel park. No, not with the brace. Just in general.

3. I now think it’s totally appropriate to run into someone I barely know at a crowded restaurant and lift my shirt up. So yeah, nothing’s really changed there.

4. It makes me stand up straighter. Which means that if I were ever to tell my mother about my fall or broken back, she’d likely be delighted.

5. Because no one can really see it, I’m not getting NEARLY the amount of sympathy (or presents) that I would like. I mean, if you broke YOUR back, I’d totally send you flowers and wine. (Mostly just WINE though.)

Anyway, enough about this. it snowed three feet in 24 hours yesterday in Tahoe, so I’m off for the weekend! (What. He just said “Don’t do anything dumb!”)

(Yup, I'm smiling.)

 

Ire on the Mountain (Or: I Listened to Too Much Grateful Dead as a Kid and Now Use Their Songs as Horrible Puns for My Blog Post Titles)

Another post in the "Why I Drink" series...

Campfriend has a really expensive snowboard. Like a $1000 snowboard. Which I am reminded of every time a skier runs into his snowboard while we’re in the lift line and Campfriend shoots the “two planker” (his words, not mine) a glare worse than the one I gave the dude in my ski house who drank all of my wine without asking. (Because had he asked, I certainly would have said, “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s MY wine, sucka.”)

Anyway, the $1000 snowboard clearly gives Campfriend a lot of anxiety because obviously he doesn’t want anything to happen to it. Except that snowboarding is this weird sport where, well, your board is flying down a mountain at 58mph (yes, his $500 goggles tell him how fast he is going) and there are things like, oh, I dunno: rocks! And tree branches! And roots! And guess what those things sometimes do?

Okay fine I’ll tell you.

They damage your snowboard. Yes, even your thousand-dollar snowboard.

I KNOW.

But for Campfriend, as far as I can tell, there is no rock or branch or root that is as horrible as a skier who bumps into his snowboard. We almost never fight, but the few times we have, it’s because a clueless skier in the lift line has decided that he will certainly make it to the top of the mountain faster if he pushes himself into the person in front of him. I’m of the belief that when someone does this to me, I should just ignore it and pretend like they’re not super annoying because there is really nothing worse than confrontation on the mountain. Campfriend, on the other hand, is of the belief that when a skier knocks into his board, there is only one course of action:

1. Shoot the skier a mean “Back Off” look.
2. If that doesn’t work, turn around and sigh exasperatedly. Loudly.
3. If that doesn’t work, say something. In a very stern and scary voice that makes me glad my father didn’t stick around.

This third part is where I want to crawl into a hole and die. Except, instead, I give Campfriend the silent treatment because I'm pretty sure the best way to get your point across is to be super passive aggressive. At least that's what my mom taught me. The thing is, usually the skier doesn’t even know what he’s doing. So then suddenly this guy is like, “Hey. Stop stepping on my board,” in this super harsh tone and the skier has no idea why the person is so angry since he’s only done it once. (Even though, in fact, he’s been doing it over and over for a solid five minutes.)

ANYWAY…

This is literally the one thing Campfriend and I have ever fought about, if you don’t count when I wait too long to feed me and then he wants me to make a food decision and meanwhile, I’m having a full low blood sugar meltdown and suddenly I hate the world and I don’t even want to eat anymore ANYWAY, GOD WHY ARE YOU SO ANNOYING AND JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! And sure, HE probably counts all of those many many moments as fights, but I’m like the opposite of a Gremlin after midnight in that as soon as you feed me, I turn right back into my usual loving (ed. note: try to find an adjective that is slightly more believable) self and so I don’t count those incidents at all.

Anyway, last weekend, we were at Alpine Meadows waiting in the lift line for Scott Chair which is kind of an annoying line because it’s a fairly slow three-person chair. We were about eight chairs away from the front when I saw Campfriend turn around and give the skier behind him “the look. 

Strike one.

Less than a minute later, he turned around and let out his frustrated sigh. 

Strike two.

And right after that?

“Dude. Stop hitting my board.”

Only this two-planker wasn’t having it.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it was something along the lines of “What the hell is your problem, I didn’t even touch your board, Seriously what is wrong with you?” Followed by “You knocked into my board four times. Just stop it!”

At which point I told Campfriend to switch places with me. After all, my snowboard only cost $300 and I'm not really into dating people with criminal records. ANY MORE. Sheesh, people!

“Okay, okay,” I said as I maneuvered around Campfriend and in front of the skier. “It’s all good.” And then I looked at the skier and added (jokingly, I thought), “Just don’t run into my snowboard.”

Apparently he didn’t find this as amusing as I did… Which I only figurd out because he looked right at me and said, “Shut the fuck up.”

And it's on.

“Are you kidding me? You can’t talk to me like that.”

(Heart racing.)

“I can do whatever the fuck I want to do.”

(People staring.)

“Well you can’t use language like that on the mountain.”

(Campfriend interjecting. Me sushing.)

“I can use whatever language I want to fucking use.”

(Fists clenching.)

“Except you can’t say FUCK at a ski resort with five year olds everywhere!”

Which there were. Two feet behind him. Nevermind that I totally destroyed my point by screaming the word fuck. Oopsie!

“I can say whatever the fuck I want to say.” 

At which point, I came up with the best retort ever. The perfect thing to say. The one thing that would really make him shake in his (ski) boots.

“God, I feel so sorry for…

 your mother.”

 (...)

“Well I feel sorry for…

you.”

Yes. Mine was lame. But his... his was So. Much. Lamer.

Plus, he has no idea that two seconds later, I got onto the chairlift and immediately burst into tears.

Daisy: 1. Mean stupid ugly motherfucking asshole skier (there are no 5 year olds on this blog) (I hope): 0.

How can you tell this adorable snowboarder to "shut the fuck up?"

 

A Story of One Girl's Rise & Fall on the Mountain

We linger over one mid-day beer at the Ice Bar for longer than usual because the mountain feels stagnant. Yes, it's a gorgeous blue bird day and yes, we're in Tahoe. We're not complaining, well, maybe about the lack of snow... a snow that seemed furious and determined in November and December, but has since been castrated by La Niña's wily ways. Leave it to a female to tease us with exactly what we want and then viciously yank it away. I can say that because I've done it myself plenty of times.

We finish our PBRs, strap into our boards, and coast down to the lift.

"What do you want to do next?"

It's the same question at the end of every run. The one you only have to say aloud when you're riding with someone. Alone, you just hop on the lift and go. It doesn't matter where you end up. It's just you.

Luckily, we usually agree. And this time, maybe because I have an assignment for a new website I'm writing for, or maybe because we're all groomered out, or maybe just because: we decide to make our way to the kiddie park in an effort to get me doing jumps again, something I've abandoned since the first snowfall of the season.

I ask him to film it. One, so I can see how little air I'm getting (I swear it feels like more when you're doing it) and two, so that I can post it on this new site I just mentioned. The first attempt is a complete disgrace to the sport and anyone who just witnessed what happened. My board barely lifts off of the ground and I'm perplexed as I make my way to the lift as to why the earth hasn't opened up and swallowed me and spared me the humiliation I'm about to endure.

"Just delete it," I say, without even asking.

He nods.

"Obviously, we're doing that again," I say.

Another nod.

Because that's how it works. You go for it and if you end up *not* actually going for it, or fucking it up, or just not liking how it all went down: You do it again. It's like the opposite of relationships. Instead of bailing when things get bad, you push through it. Oh. Wait.

ANYWAY.

We get off of the lift and make our way back to the park. He rides down to the first jump and pulls out his phone. I watch a four year old follow his instructor over the jumps. Sure, he's just gliding over them and not getting air and sure he's not quite three feet tall, but, I mean, he's four. I'm [redacted] years old than him for heaven's sake. I've gone through bigger parks. I've landed bigger jumps. This is all about that stupid voice in my head that appeared a few years ago after a certain birthday and refuses to let me live my life without weighing the consequences.

I wait and make sure the four year old doesn't fall after the jump; after all, the worst thing I could do would be to land on top of a child. With the way I talk about kids, no one would even believe it was an accident. I see him move on to the second jump in the park (park is a mild exaggeration, I'll admit) and I turn my board straight down the hill and go. I do my best not to speed check myself. After all, these jumps are tiny. Without any speed, gravity is going to win the fight.

I aim my board straight at the jump, slide up it and... ugh. Totally anticlimatic. Again. I can do this, I tell myself. I curve my board around the second jump and aim it towards the final jump in the park. I've got a decent amount of speed, determined to make this one count. I point my board straight, fly up the jump and suddenly I'm five feet in the air, my balance is totally off...

"Oh!" I exclaim.

Time slows down. I know things are about to go horribly wrong. But I can't fix it.

My feet are now completely out from under me and I'm falling back to the earth with my eyes facing the sky.

I land the jump. With my back.

Pain like I've never felt before overtakes my entire lower back. I can't move. I bellow like a wild animal. I try to sit up. I only do so long enough to make eye contact with the Alpine Meadows employee who is working "Tubeville," the inner tube park I've never even noticed before. I don't know how he sees the look I give him through my goggles--the please help me I think I might be dying look, but he starts running towards me.

I collapse back onto the snow, moaning like a Tyrannosaurus rex in heat.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"No."

"I have to block off the jump. I'll be right back. Just one second, okay?"

I can hear him running up the mountain to make sure no one launches the jump and lands on my face.

The pain is unbearable. I can't breathe. I can't open my eyes. I can't move.

The next part is a blur... They don't want me to move. All I want to do is move. Campfriend takes my snowboard off (thank God) and I bend my legs. They tell me not to move again. Ski patrol is here. A doctor is here. My eyes are still closed.

"Does this hurt?" they ask as they push different parts of my body. My pelvis, my neck, my back--

"Yes. That hurts. It all hurts."

"Yeah... It's going to hurt to be on your back for a while," someone says.

"Sorry, babe." I smile. The ski patrol laugh, but Campfriend misses the obvious sex joke, focused on the back board and stretcher that have arrived. I'm just happy I'm still making sex jokes.

I'm on a back board. I'm being immobilized. They're taping my head down to the board.

"Sorry, I'm going to get your hair in this," someone apologizes. He could yank each and every strand out of my head and I wouldn't even feel it.

"I'm sorry," I keep saying. "I think I'm fine. I'm sure I'm fine." But also... "Why aren't there any dogs here?" Alpine Meadows is famous for its adorable rescue dogs. I never thought I'd be in this situation, but now that I am, I mean... it'd be so much better if there were a Golden Retriever by my side.

But there's not. And I can't move. And I can't open my eyes. And so the next thing I know they're pulling me in the stretcher behind a snow mobile to First Aid.

I want to open my eyes, to find a way to enjoy this, even though that's obviously not the point, but the pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced, so I keep my eyes closed and try to breathe. Which also hurts.

I don't know how they get me from the sled to the table in First Aid, but somehow I am there, still strapped to the back board, my neck immobilized with two cushion things, and my head taped down. I imagine someone had to lift me, the thought of which seems horrifying. But not as horrifying as when they start asking me my height and weight.

I mean, I can't see him, but I'm sure Campfriend is right there. Thinking I might be about to die, I don't even bother to lie. (File under: moments I'd like back.)

There's more poking, more prodding, more "Does this hurt?" "Does THIS hurt?" "What about THIS?" and all I know is that, literally, EVERYTHING hurts. I think about how when I first fell, I was in so much pain, but assumed that I'd be at the Alpine Bar shortly enjoying a beer. I now know that's not the case. In fact, it's starting to seem like I might not be back at Alpine Meadows, much less the bar, for the rest of the season. I am determined not to let that happen.

"I'm sure I'm fine," I say. All I want is for them to unstrap me. To roll over. So that I'm lying on ANYTHING but my back.

"We need to call the ambulance," the doctor says.

"NO!"

And that's when the tears start.

"You can't do that," I protest. "I can't afford it."

"When you landed," the doctor explains," you may have compressed your spinal cord and caused a fracture."

"I don't think I did that," I say, even though I have no idea. I just want out of these straps. Off of this board.

"We won't know if you fractured your spine unless we get an x-ray," he continues. "And I don't want to move you until you get an x-ray because if I let you stand up and walk, you may start to lose feelings in your legs. And once you lose feelings in your legs, you can't get that back."

"I can't afford it," I say again, tears streaming down my face. "I just can't."

"Can you afford not to ever walk again?" he asks.

Damn this guy is good. "I'm not trying to be difficult," I keep saying. "I just... My deductible. It's six thousand dollars. I can't... I don't..."

They leave me strapped to the board while I make the decision.

I ask Campfriend to call my oldest brother. I'm in no position to make a decision, and somehow it seems better to ask someone who is far away and can't see me, helpless and in agonizing pain.

As he walks out of the building to make the call, I yell, "Tell him not to tell my mom!"

The nurse approaches and asks, "Would your mother maybe help you out?"

It's too long of a story. Too much to get into. I wish I could shake my head no, but I'm forced to use my words.

"I'm too old to ask my mother for help."

A small pep talk about how her son is 31 and she'd help him out follows, and she might be the most well intentioned person ever, but I just want someone to unstrap me so I can roll the fuck over and so I shrug and say, "Maybe."

Campfriend returns and lets me know my brother thinks I should skip the ER. Wait to see a doctor in the city, since that will be much cheaper.

I tell them I am going to walk out. There are forms to be read and signed. I can barely focus enough to write my own name, so I have no idea what I'm signing, but I know it means I can't sue. Like I'd sue someone else for the fact that I can't land a jump.

They unstrap me from the board and roll me off. I immediately turn onto my stomach. I can still feel my fingers and toes. The pain is excruciating--why won't someone give me a fucking Qualuude? Are Qualuude's even something that still exist?--but it feels better to be facing down.

Campfriend goes to get the car. I keep my eyes closed and try to think about anything other than not being able to walk for the rest of my life. I don't even want to think about not being able to snowboard for the rest of the season.

The guy who saw me fall and rushed to help me is back at First Aid, this time with a guy with a broken collarbone. He comes up to me and asks how I'm doing.

"Okay," I say.

"You really launched that jump," he says.

"Yeah," I can barely talk. But he is kind of cute, so I suffer through it. (I am nothing if not a martyr.)

"I saw the whole thing. Next time, just be sure to bend your knees more."

"Oh, there's not going to be a next time," I say. But as soon as the words come out of my mouth, we both know it's not true. He raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I've got to do it one more time. Just to know I can. But then... never again."

"Exactly," he says. "Just keep those knees bent."

 

I wake up the next morning still in massive amounts of pain. But I know what I have to do.I don't know if I want to as much as I am compelled to. So I pop six more motrin, which I've been doing every three hours since the fall, put on my snowboarding gear and go back to the mountain.

As I walk up the hill to get on the lift, I turn to my left to size up the jump that got the best of me... the jump that I am going to have my way with. Not today, mind you, but soon.

...It's gone.

 

 (Want to see the fall? Follow me past the first "I can't believe I'm letting you see how much I suck" jump and all the way to the bottom of the hill. Better viewed in full screen.)