I have never been camping.

I have only been skiing once.

What am I doing this week? Thanks for asking. I’m skiing! And camping!

Going to REI to pick up warm socks and a violently purple pair of long underwear, was like embarking on an anthropological experiment. Who were these people in quick-dry shorts, hiking shoes and vests? Who were these children trying on hiking shoes? Why is that man running around the store?

But the gizmos, the gadgets, they enticed. The sleek headlamps, the enormous kayak with bag, the coils of climbing rope, the ready-to-eat lasagna in a bag – someone could spend a lifetime creating excuses to obtain these particularly useful things.

Fortunately, the outdoor-active lifestyle seems cost prohibitive to poor folk like me who work for non-profits. And the idea that I will not have to think of a reason to buy a camp stove is, frankly, a relief. I left the store with my socks, and underwear, and a coffee mug, which was admittedly an impulse buy.

There are many things I’m sure about in life. For example: I love the symphony, I believe in buying nice toilet paper, and I am not meant for the wilderness.

But in the name of trying new things, in the spirit of adventure, I pack my bag and pray that I will not in fact have my own Into the Wild, or Grizzly Man experience.

Of course, actually getting to the wilderness implies that I will survive my day of schussing down the slopes. Skiing, for those of you who may not know, involves putting on impossibly tight boots that render your ankles immobile, and then strapping large planks to your feet. Once this accomplished, two skinny poles are picked up for an indeterminate purpose. Balance? Stability? Increase of arm-flailing capability? After waddling to a moving bench, there is the long ride up a mountain, which is high and from which the only way down is on skis.

Unlike Tom Cruise, I have never felt “the need-the need for speed.” Unfortunately, that seems to be what skiing is about. My inner-speed is roughly set to tubing down the Guadalupe, anything that goes slowly enough to drink a beer has to be a good activity.

I know a woman for whom going skiing means taking a fat book to the lodge and sitting in front of the fire. This seems perfect. But at 24, I think I’m still obligated to give it the old, college try. Have I mentioned that when I fall at skiing, I find it nearly impossible to get up? I’m like a turtle on its back. Left there without aid it’s likely I would starve to death because of the inability to change my position.

So let's hope I stay upright on those unwieldy skiis, maybe my poles will help.

Here's March, roaring in like a lion..
Spring's on the way, and everything's right with the world.