Sometimes misses being a ski lift

There are many Alaska wintertime sports. I prefer cross-country skiing over downhill, but my son, Patrick, is the other way around. Hatcher Pass in the Matanuska Valley is a winter playground to skiers, snowboarders and snowmachiners. Patrick and his friends loved to downhill ski in the area mostly because it was close and there was no lift ticket expense, not to mention the abundance of the fluffy white stuff.

Absence of a chair lift or even a rope tow caused a slight problem, though. I had been told there had been a rope tow of some sort in years past. All during the 15 years we lived in the area while our kids were young, there was continued talk and plans for development for ski recreation, but with no results.

Of course, there was a solution to the problem. A vehicle and driver was needed to haul as many boys and ski gear as possible up the mountain. The vehicle was taken up to the pullout about a mile past Motherlode Lodge. At the top, all the skiers piled out, quickly attached gear and headed down the rocky slopes. The driver then drove down to a tiny pulloff about a half-mile below the lodge. Many times the boys arrived before the vehicle and were already waiting. All aboard and back up the hill to repeat the process.

As Patrick’s mother, I frequently was the designated driver. Skiing days were usually snowy with poor visibility. The road was narrow, windy and steep, and, of course, I had to watch out for all the other designated drivers going up and down. After about the 10th round-trip of the day I would be ready to call it quits. Hopefully, they were worn out, too. By this time, there was a build-up of melted snowy slush inside the car, the windows were steamed up and the whole car had that wet dog smell. Unusual noises, silly jokes and other adolescent boy activity supplied a soundtrack for our adventure.

When our son got his driver’s license, I thought my job as a chauffer job was over, but Patrick didn’t want to drive and miss out on all the skiing, and we didn’t trust the boys with the car, so I kept my job as designated driver, although my husband got in on the fun a couple of times.

One time we let Patrick and his friends take the car, a 1983 GMC Eagle, by themselves. When they returned that evening, a big chunk was broken out of the front grill. Patrick told us that a large raven hit the grill and broke it. When questioned, the other boys backed up his story and to this day, he sticks with that explanation.

Another time, they all got in a great deal of trouble for skipping school in favor of skiing. Patrick was very frustrated that day when he came home with only one ski. The other had popped off on a jump and disappeared in the snow. He spent hours searching for it. The next spring a special outing to find the lost ski did not locate it either. Perhaps skipping classes wasn’t such a great idea.

When the boys gradually acquired their own vehicles, I was no longer needed as a designated driver and was relieved to give up my duties. Now, years later it seems strange that I sometimes wish I was needed for the job once again.

Maraley McMichael is a longtime Mat-Su Valley resident. This column was written several years ago when her children were teenagers.