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Going
Downhill
©2001 Joy Lucadello Luster
The day was crisp, mostly sunny,
with a few cumulus clouds drifting overhead. The snow at Boreal
Ski Resort off Highway #80 was deep and solid. As I rode toward
the top of the mountain, I looked out as the ski lift went past
the pine trees, and watched with admiration as other skiers came
down the mountain. At my stop I glided off the lift and turned
away toward the ski run. I felt both excited and fearful.
This particular Saturday in December we had left the San Francisco
area about five a.m., driven across the bridge, up the highway
through Vallejo, Fairfield, Sacramento and Auburn. As we started
to climb up into the mighty Sierras we caught the first glimpses
of far away peaks covered with snow. After awhile, snow patches
appeared at the side of the road, and then soon there was snow
all around and we were in the midst of the winter wonderland.
The limbs of the trees slanted downward where snowdrifts had
piled thickly upon the dark green branches.
As a coastal Californian, each time I came to this place I was
impressed. All of those years, all of this time, this has been
here, I thought. Yet, because of so many things, and for so many
reasons, this was only the second winter for me to learn what
it was like to actually play on the snow-covered mountains. I
was still tentative on the skis, fearful and determined. I knew
by this time that a temperature of eighteen degrees did not mean
that you should have stayed home. The dry cold was rather invigorating,
and I learned to like it.
This was about my sixth try at the ancient Nordic sport. In February,
I had taken a lesson from the ski pro for one day. My class included
some six-year-olds, some teenagers, and a few young adults. I
had rented skis and boots and two poles at the ski lodge. My
companion showed me how to put on the boots and how to walk with
the flaps open until you arrived at the place in the snow where
you put on your skis. That is because the boots are so stiff
you can hardly walk, especially until you get used to their bulkiness.
The ski outfit I had purchased at a J. C Penny Store in the Bay
Area gave me the semblance of a giant blue teddy bear. I had
a long sleeved turtleneck top under bright bulky overalls, a
matching jacket, and gloves. I also had found an old knit cap
to wear.
Putting on the skis was an experience in itself. The boots were
designed to fit, and once I got the hang of it, it seemed very
simple. Just put your boot toe in the waiting rim, line it up
evenly then press down your heel, and snap, you're in! Then,
fasten the bindings. I walked and slid to the instruction area.
"The first thing you're going to learn," said the instructor,
"is to fall down!"
"Well," I silently protested, "I don't plan to
fall very much."
"You will all fall," the instructor continued, "so
you might as well learn to do it right."
So we practiced how to fall and, as importantly, how to get up.
After that, we learned about keeping your skis parallel and about
snowplowing. Snowplowing became my most valuable maneuver. When
you point the ski tips toward each other into a snowplow, making
an open 'V' with your skis, you slow down and stop. That was
very important! Of course, I found that if you point them so
closely together that they intersect, then you will fall down.
Hard! That is not the type of stop you want to make.
We spent a lot of time that
day climbing the small slope and then coming down. Over and over
again, as the instructor gave each of us pointers on any mistakes
we made. Finally we went up the lift. We learned how to get on
and get off. Eventually, we came downhill. Some fell, some staggered
and swooped, and some seemed effortless as we all reached the
bottom again. That particular lesson was concluded and I spent
the rest of the day practicing what I had learned. Indeed, for
the next few times in the snow I went over and over the routine,
gradually increasing my skills. I tried going up further on the
mountain to the next level. I experienced a mixture of failure
and success. I fell, I slid, and I snowplowed and skied down
the bunny (beginner) hills.
Now, standing on my skis at the crest I gazed downward. At the
bottom of the hill the automobiles moved like toys across the
parking lot. The big lodge building with its restaurant, rental
and sales areas seemed diminished by the sparkling mountain.
Early Christmas decorations glittered, moving in the slight wind.
Skiers and ski resorts had welcomed the heavy Thanksgiving week
snow storms, and looked forward to a busy season. Two weeks earlier
when we had arrived for the first skiing of the winter it had
been cloudy and gray, with occasional flurries. Then, I had practiced
the procedures learned the previous season.
This December day it was time to move ahead. Phrases raced around
in my mind flashing like beckoning disco lights, "fish or
cut bait", "move or get out of the way", "if
not now, when?"
As I waited at the beginning of the intermediate ski run, contemplating,
and working up my courage to go down for the first time, I believed
that I could do it. A number of skiers, not stopping, had passed
me and were on the way downhill. Finally, I gave myself a push
with the poles then lifted them and began the run. I started
rather slowly, going back and forth across the slope, gradually
getting the feel of the mountain.
"Let's do it", I said to myself with some bravado.
I started going downhill with my skis straight and parallel.
I turned to avoid the huge lumps that I knew were snow-covered
boulders, bending my knees, using my thigh muscles to control
my movements. In a shaded area I avoided an ice slick as I leaned
out on the curve. I whizzed past the trees, and inside of me
there was a thrill rising.
I had been thrilled before by my first ride in an airplane,
a two-seater, when a cousin took me up over the bay and the 1938
skyline of San Francisco. Then in later years, there was the
caress of a lover, the first cry of my first born child, and
the sight of heavens turned rosy as the sun came up over an Arizona
desert. But this time, going down the mountain, it was pure ego,
pure thrill, just me - not to be shared, but certainly to be
treasured.
"Wow!" It was fantastic. I was so exhilarated. "So
this is skiing!" I had never before felt such an internal
rush.
All too soon I was at the bottom, turning to stop, making only
a little snowplow as insurance. It was a totally successful day.
I was fifty-seven years old.
Stauffer
Place
©2001 Joy Lucadello Luster
When you see me now you may
not know that once I was free and untamed. Thorny blackberries
grew across my flanks, along with the scrub bushes, the redwood
trees, and some oaks. You might even say that I was wild, and
perhaps that is true.
Let me introduce myself. I am
a part of a hill, one of many that runs southward from what is
now called San Pablo Bay to San Jose and beyond. In the early
days I was rather indolent. I slept, shifting a little as the
mighty fault that lies deep under me rumbled and strained. It
was fairly simple then. In the springtime, the deer came with
their fawns, lightly skipping over the land. Squirrels, bobcats
and other small animals came to eat from the leaves, berries
and nuts that abounded, and some made their homes here. They
drank from nearby streams. Birds wove their nests in the leafy
branches overhead and often the lands would ring with their songs.
The first humans to come were usually the males. They hunted
for the deer. They walked softly, stayed awhile, and then returned
to their homes in the flatlands. This went on for many years,
and I grew accustomed to their tread.
About a hundred and fifty years ago things began to change. Pale
men came to hunt the deer. I no longer felt the soft tread of
the early ones. After some time I began to feel digging and digging.
These new humans spoke of bauxite and ore and I knew that they
hoped to find something within me. Since I had no choice, I endured
their intrusions. I had been here for a long time; I knew the
strains of mudslides, of torrential rains, of summer heat and
parching. I would wait. They eventually went away, and I was
peaceful again.
Good! Perhaps I could go back to how it was before! But, alas,
that was not to be. More hunters came. Then came those who planted
pine and eucalyptus. Why did they think I needed more trees?
The new trees soon grew comfortably alongside the old, and we
once again settled into the rhythms of the seasons-the sun, the
rain, the wind, and the fog that crept up from the bay below.
When I gazed towards the flatlands I saw the hunters' structures.
Many, many structures. I heard them speak of offices, businesses,
homes, and progress as they walked up and down, creating a pathway.
Some came to walk-they called themselves hikers. They were much
like the early ones; they tread more softly, and savored the
beauty I had to offer.
After the walkers and the hunters, then came those with machinery.
Above my small area they built a road called Redwood so that
the hikers were cut off from the larger mountains behind. Below,
nearly cutting off my feet, there was another road called Mountain
Boulevard.
For a number of years it was peaceful. Around me on my sister
hills these humans built houses, but not here. I was so thankful!
I could hear their vehicles on the roads, but few came to where
I am.
Then in the time the humans call the middle of the twentieth
century, I felt their impact. Those with machinery came right
to where I am! "What will they do?" I worried.
Well, let me tell you. The humans rode on huge yellow pieces
of iron machinery. First they gouged and graded to a 35 degree
angle, turning the pathway as they climbed. Then, when they deemed
it wide enough, and smooth enough, they covered my soft brown
earth with asphalt. They hemmed this in with concrete curbs.
Then others came and dug huge gashes down either side, putting
in pipes and strange containers of one sort and another. They
did have the grace to cover the unsightly objects. Just as my
sister hills had warned me, more humans came. They built their
structures facing the asphalt pathway. They named me Stauffer
Place. They began to stay here all of the time. Some of my trees
were dug up and destroyed. The deer and the bobcats went away,
further south into the wooded areas.
At first, of course, I was in a tizzy about all of the activity
and intrusion. "Oh, get used to a little change!" one
of my sisters whispered on the afternoon wind. "You're getting
old, but you're not that old! You are beginning to sound like
the big mountain, just grumpy most of the time."
These humans called each other neighbors. Many of them seemed
to cherish me. There were new plantings, new trees, and lush
bougainvillea, colorful geraniums, and wide varieties of roses
began to appear. Their little ones, the children, reminded me
sometimes of the fawns who used to frolic up and down. Their
laughter was a joyful noise. We gradually got used to one another.
There was one time that the fault beneath rumbled and trembled.
Believe me, so did I! The soft moving air brought rumors that
the earth had shifted south and west of the great bay as well
as here on the eastern side of the waters. There was much activity
among the humans and there was much anxiety. Some of the structures
on my hill showed great cracks caused by the movements. Afterwards,
as in times past, we reverted to our previous ways, yet knowing
that these periodic shifts beneath us will come again.
Nowadays, there's Highway 13
close by with its endless traffic. There are still a few redwood
trees. These old friends nod to me in the afternoons when the
breezes come from the west. I have grown used to the automobiles
that drive up and down the old pathway. In the mornings there
are still those who walk. They go up and down my hill in their
jogging suits, often with their dogs to accompany them. The people
have come and gone and more have come. They are of various colors
and kinds, and I like that. I have always liked variety. I used
to feel that the humans were intruders, but now they are just
a part of our neighborhood. I sit comfortably under their structures.
They belong here in this place and time, just as did the vegetation,
animals and birds of many years ago. Actually, in the early morning
if you listen carefully, the birds still sing on Stauffer Place.
Outlook
©2001 Joy Lucadello Luster
Did you smell bacon frying over
a campfire
and the June roses kissed with a blush of red?
Or was it the rotting garbage or unwashed smell
of bodies that stayed in your head?
Did you hug a child, feel love
and happiness
and hope for the future, a sense of renewal?
Or did you feel anger, react with despair because
you live with the burdens of racism/sexism/hate-ism?
Did you taste the sweet freshly
baked bread to sustain you
and awaken to the tang of an orange?
Or did you relish the charred bitter ashes of failure,
and the vinegar and bile of discontent?
Did you dance to the sound of
the music
and walk with a lilt in your step?
Or did you succumb to the pain and the years
and inch along slowly towards death?
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SPRING 2001