Just Another Sick August Trip Report
Apologies in advance for the crappy pictures. Camcorders don’t take good skills.
Midlothian.
The name itself conjures images of mist and mountains and quests that can never end. Magic and myth intertwined so that one cannot utter the word without awe. Ancient times and ancient lands still standing for those searching. Always just around the corner, always over the next horizon.
Midlothian.
Like most ideas of any value, it started with a mere flicker. A casual sentence, half-joking, just testing the waters. The Roos found the waters warm and a few emails and phone calls later a plan befitting this mountain was in place. We would meet somewhere sometime on Saturday.
The excitement was electric. The insanity too much to ponder.
I went to bed that night with a feeling I know all too well. Legs jittery, heartbeat quickening, mind racing. Everything focused on tomorrow.
Midlothian.
***
The elevation rose and precipitation started dotting my windshield. Grey skies opened up and released their burden on those below. A slight tightening on the steering wheel and I forged ahead, smiling at the refreshing this would give the surface.
I arrived slightly early and took the opportunity to do some scoping while I waited. The clouds still rumbled overhead but the view in front of me was clear.
Midlothian was going to be sick.
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Siiiick.
I was grinning like a fool by the time the brilliant blue Audi pulled into the lot. The Roos unloaded and it was evident that they too were fully stoked for what lay ahead. But safety always comes first and with the weather still unstable we opted for a quick bite to eat to wait things out.
Sure enough, the clouds broke and by the time the baked potatoes were devoured, blue skies and bright sun were out in force. A quick pit and beacon check told us it was game on so we headed off to score our tickets and rental gear.
One hour tickets meant little time for fooling around. With knowing nods we headed for the chair that would take us to the top.
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The Roos pondering the insanity.
Blizzard of Aahhs quotes swirled as we scoped lines and planned out moves. To our left, the narrowness of Couloir Poubelle combined with the kids riding the platter up the centre of it made it a dicey proposition. Instead we headed for the only alternative: a steep undulating pitch with large tufts of grass bursting through the openings of the toothbrush mat.
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The slopes, with Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth in the background.
Roo led the charge, leaving only his laughter and a slight spray in his wake. With a grin that only skis on feet can bring, I dropped in next. The turns were disconcerting as carving was not really an option. With little to no edge hold, it was really a game of controlled skidding. Something which I did not have an immediate knack for.
And neither did Mrs. Roo, judging by her slight collision with me. “Go in front of me; I don’t want you behind me,” was all I could say between giggles.
And so it went, the terrain testing every nuance of our skiing technique. Face shots were had (when they turned on the water spray), the backcountry was explored (grass and dirt = good times), straight-lines were stalled (dry patches are awkward), and the park was attempted (old school spread-eagle for me, courageous shoulder slam for Mrs. Roo).
The hour passed quickly, as they tend to do when you’re laughing and playing with gravity. We casually returned our grass covered skis and took a moment to quietly reflect on this crucial step in our skiing lives. Surely this meant something. Surely this could be seen as a special moment in out continuing progression, our everlasting pursuit.
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bad_roo kickin’ some spray.
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Mrs. Roo before the slam.
Bad_roo summed it up by breaking wind and with the disgusted laughs that followed, it all became so clear.
Sick and ashamed and happy (and some reports demand to be put up right away),
d.
