Back to downhill skiing
So, there I was in Maine, learning the disheartening news that my cross-country skiing would greatly benefit from a downhill lesson. This sucked. As I left Sugarloaf, though, I remembered tiny little Whaleback Mountain in New Hampshire, which I had passed numerous times in my travels through the region. It was easily accessible from the highway, and it was small enough that I didn’t think the terrain would be too terrifying, or a lift ticket too costly for what could be a very short and frustrating day. I approached the good folks at the ski school desk and asked about a lesson. For an insanely low rate, I got the rental equipment, lift ticket, and lesson secured. I signed up and headed to the waiting area. A college-aged kid skied over to me and asked if I was there for the lesson. When I told him that I was, he explained that I was the only one in the class, so I was getting a private lesson for the cost of a group one. Shoot, score. As for the fun business of the lesson, we...