The First Ski Trip

My life changed based on small decisions, deemed unimportant when made, that skewed the course unexpectedly to my present situation.

In the spring of 1962, during my senior year at Santa Clara High School, I made one of those decisions. Against the advice of my school counselor, Mr. Duncan, I took the American College Testing, (ACT), college entrance exam.

Mr. Duncan had explained I wasn't college material which my grades attested to. I was never in the California Scholastic Federation, (CSF). They got pins to wear on their school sweater for being smart. Instead, my sweater was emblazoned with the athletic block letters, “SCH” on which a little football was stitched.

Mr. Duncan recommended I apply to San Jose Community College and enroll in their excellent auto repair program.

When the schools ACT test results were sent to him, I was called from my chemistry class to his office for my ACT review. After I sat, he stared at me oddly, then broke an extended silence and said,

“Jim, your test results were unexpected. Go back to your class, review the numbers and you can see for yourself.”

Back it the classroom, I opened the little grades package and saw the highest score was only 35 in science and the lowest was 28 in English, all documentation he was correct, I wasn’t college material.

I knew I had poor grades, hung around the academic losers, but scores so low they didn’t get a sniff of being a “D”, depressed me. Most of my grades were “Cs” with an occasional “D” or “B”, but never "F".

While Mr. Wright, my chemistry teacher, droned on about Mendeleev’s Periodic Table of Elements, I started to read how to interpret the test score numbers. Depression evaporated as I converted the little numbers into percentiles. 35 was above the 99 percentile in science of those who took the exam. Even lowly 28 was in the 85 percentile. The result was I’d gotten the highest ACT score of my school.

Suddenly I could go to a college, a lot of them. Despite the test scores, however, there was the issue of money. My father was a blue-collar worker at a company that made labels for local canneries. We didn’t live on the wrong side of the tracks but were close enough, when younger, I'd hear the steam engines in the early morning as they chugged out of Santa Clara’s little railroad station.

My only financial option was to go to San Jose State College. It didn’t have tuition back then.

In addition to my ACT score its other requirement was 12 Semester "Bs”. My wood shop classes gave me the minimum semester "B"s" for acceptance.

Once in SJS, I worked menial jobs at Almaden Winery, Treat Ice Cream and Libby’s McNeil cannery but mostly at Frontier Village amusement park running rides and cleaning the grounds with a broom and dustpan.

In my sophomore year, San Jose State College’s ski club offered a four-day discount ski trip. It included bussing, lodging, and lift tickets at Heavenly Valley, California, the location of the 1960’s Winter Olympics. I’d visited the area three years previously while still in high school. Combined with the beauty of Lake Tahoe, it was an opportunity to good to miss. I dipped into my meager savings and signed up for the trip.

I rented cheap ski equipment at Santa Clara’s Sporting Goods. My attire didn’t attract pretty Co-Ed’s. I wore an old army cap a friend gave me with fold down flaps to protect my protruding ears, an old army coat, and Levi’s with long johns underneath. I didn’t buy gloves or googles. My old wood skis and scared uo boots proclaimed me a novice.

After a day of being jerked up on a rope tow and learning to somewhat control my ski descent by using the snowplow technique, it was off to the bunny hills.

Skis back then were a lot more dangerous with the knock offs from falls problematic. I tasted a lot of snow but always got back up. I relied on the advice of the guy who rented me the skis.

"Jim, when you get out of control, lean back, and fall on your butt.”

By the third day, it was time for the difficult runs.

This trip was cheap to get students into skiing. Hard to believe, but back then the slopes needed to attract more skiers. Skining was considereed a dangerous sport and many were afraid to try it for fear of injury.

More than half the students on the ski bus were females. They, of course were there for the athletic, good looking, frat boys. This meant they had to ski the upper slopes where their action was. They too were novices and after a day on the rope tow they advanced to the steeper slopes. As a result, by the time the bus returned to SJS, almost half were on crutches including some males. The returnees documented skiing was dangerous and probably resulted in less student ski interest instead of more. I, however, was hooked.

I contribute to the female crutches carnage. On an upper slope, at a sharp turn, a co-ed was laying skewed on the snow with two ski patrolers providing first aid.

As I barreled down, out of control, they looked up and saw the shoddy attired ski zombie streaming toward them and abandoned their aiding her. It was too late for me to fall on my butt to avoid a collision. with her. Being a gentleman, I managed athe little control I possessed and avoided her head and torso, I snowplowed over her legs splayed on the snow.

I heard her shrill scream as I barreled over and then through the trees off the designated ski path. Finally coming to my senses, I dropped down on my butt into a snowbank and avoided the eventual cliff.

I never became a good skier desite being hooked. Initally this was due to lack of funds. Once in Oregon, I became a family man skier and took the kids and wife on ski trips. While not of the penury status of my college days, to take a family skining is not cheap. I never acquired fancy ski attire but did buy skis, googles, and gloves. I still fell on my Levi’s clad butt when out of control down the slope.

Eventully I drifted into more of a ski lodge dweller than skier once snowboarding became popular which just isn’t the same. Now, I have grandchildren who fly off to ski, Oregon, Utah, Colorado, and even once Heavenly Valley. They are all excellent skiers and have the fancy gear and attire to fit in.

Now and then, the screams of the girl laying in the snow bend path creeps up from a memory bank to haunt me. I suspect she shudders when a memory bank of hers bubbles out the day the ski zombie snowplowed over her legs. All I can say is, I took the best path I could. kThat's the way most of my life has been, not the preferred path but the best path I could based on the little decisons made, deemed unimportant when made.

Author Notes: In old age distant memories percolate up.

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