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.

Explosion on the Lake

Shortly after arriving in Tahoe on Friday night, I heard a loud explosion.

"What was that?" I asked Campfriend.

"Probably just snow falling off of a roof," he answered.

And with that, I finished the bowl of Captain Crunch cereal I was eating in bed and fell asleep without brushing my teeth.

 

With the morning, we learned it wasn't a huge chunk of snow falling off of a roof; rather, it was a 3-story house a few blocks away exploding after a heavy snowload on their propane tank caused a leak. The owners weren't home; the house on the lake was their second home, after all, but the explosion demolished everything... including their child's Radio Flyer wagon.

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?"

 

Label Whores

I joined a new ski house this year after deciding that coordinating a ski house was too much work with too little reward. Seriously, that shit is basically a part-time job and all you ever hear is "The hot tub is broken," "The driveway's too icy," "That was the worst hand job ever." And you're like "Bitch, I don't get paid to do this crap, take a bath if you need to soak, buy a car with 4WD; you rent a cabin in TAHOE, and yes, it was a shitty hand job because hand jobs aren't a real thing that people actually give so you shouldn't have demanded one from me in the first place, but since it kept you from masturbating yet again in the shower we all share, I guess it was worth it."

Someone from last year's house who didn't realize what a thankless job it was did put together a new house for this season with many of the same people, but somehow between last winter and this winter they all became couples and, well: EW. Couples are gross.

So anyway, I'm in a new house with only a few people I know. And this house is very different from any house I've been in before in that people take over the kitchen and cook elaborate fancy two hour meals. For just themselves. Also, people write their names on all of their food items. Not just their wine (which I only did after someone drank an entire bottle of mine leaving me with only a third of a glass which basically meant I had to spend the entire night locked in a closet huffing glue) or their Odwalla orange juice (that shit is nine bucks, yo), but like their gigantic block of parmesan cheese. And their Costco-sized bag of sliced bread. And their butter. Seriously. Their butter! It's weird. I mean, don't get me wrong, I get not wanting people to eat your food, but when I was a kid and I wanted to make sure there were Oreos for me to eat later, I didn't write my name on them, I just hid them under my bed like a normal selfish person.

Anyway, the point of this is that last week I got to the ski house with my bag of groceries (read: wine, orange juice, goldfish and cookies) and grabbed the permanent marker to label everything. I autographed my $9 orange juice and went to put it in the fridge. And that's when I saw all of the sharpied names on egg cartons and salad dressings and gallons of milk and bags of baby carrots and butter containers staring back at me. It was like everything I never wanted my life to turn into had manifested itself into a collection of labeled groceries on the top shelf of that refrigerator.

And in that moment, I decided I was not going to write my name on any of my food. Rather, I asked Campfriend to drop his pants and proceeded to sign my name in cursive across his penis. Because, honestly, I don't give a shit if someone eats my cookies, but that dick? It's all mine.

Oh. And also that whipped cream. I'll be needing that later.