So the dog and I walked around Sugarloaf village. I marveled at the engineering. A stream ran through the village: bound by boulders, cement walls, and culverts. Small bridges arced over the stream and restaurant windows jutted over it. Chairlifts everywhere, wide rivers of white tracked down the mountain, and shuttle buses looped from parking lots to ticket windows.
I heard laughter and shouts overhead. "Look! A dog!" some children shouted.
The children. There were hordes of them, all dressed in shiny colorful pants and jackets, helmets, boots, and iridescent goggles. They came up the slope on a trailer bench, towed by a snowmobile. They whizzed down, instructors shouting, "Pizza! Pizza! Make your pizza!"
Pizza, that means point your ski tips together, digging in the inner edges. That slows you down. That's the beginner's stance.
I heard laughter and shouts overhead. "Look! A dog!" some children shouted.
The children. There were hordes of them, all dressed in shiny colorful pants and jackets, helmets, boots, and iridescent goggles. They came up the slope on a trailer bench, towed by a snowmobile. They whizzed down, instructors shouting, "Pizza! Pizza! Make your pizza!"
Pizza, that means point your ski tips together, digging in the inner edges. That slows you down. That's the beginner's stance.
