Mount Charleston

Today we decided to drive up to Mount Charleston. About 45 minutes northeast of Las Vegas, it's actually a ski area in the wintertime. Anyway, after going the wrong way and getting stuck behind two snowplows going about 20 miles per hour, we drove by quite a few people who just drive up there to go sledding. And an hour and a half after leaving home, we were there.

For me, ski lodges and mountains in and of themselves don't really bring back happy memories. When our family went skiing during winter breaks, my favorite part was going back to our lodgings after a half day comprised of struggling to ski rather than tumble down the slopes in subzero conditions. We would have hot chocolate, maybe grilled cheese and tomato soup, and bask in blissful warmth. Once everyone had returned from their day of fun, we would have dinner and play games together. So everything was wonderful about the skiing vacations but the skiing itself. But I digress.

We arrived too late to actually do anything but have a picnic in their lodge. It was cold enough outside to give Zorah a headache just walking from the parking lot to the lodge, so we pretty much ate, used the facilities, and turned back around and headed home. The experience was not so great for little Z. She was especially unimpressed by the bathroom, whose floor was coated with the ubiquitous ski sludge. For those of you who have never been to a ski area, this is a clotted brown slush on the floor of ski lodge bathrooms consisting of sand, melted snow, half-dissolved toilet paper, and other waste products churned throughout the day by ski and snowboard boot traffic. Since we were there at closing time, she got to see it in full splendor.

The point of this description is that I am now faced with a dilemma, which is that Zorah, who was so excited to try skiing, is now rather averse to the idea. On the one hand, Brian and I want her to at least try it. On the other hand, I hate skiing. I figure she will probably want to try it one of these years, and maybe even like it, if we don't force her to go now.

During the long car ride there and back, Zorah read The BFG by Roald Dahl.