I grew up in Western Massachusetts, but the first time I ever snow-skied was in California, in 1970-71. It was not a pleasant experience.
Sometime likely in January 1971, but it could well have been February, a bunch of guys at Naval Special Warfare Group, Pacific decided to take a ski excursion. I figured it would be a great time to try it. We were going to go to Mammoth Mountain for a two-day, two-night outing. I volunteered to drive.
Even today, with an interstate highway now in place from San Diego to north of LA, the route is 400+ miles each way, 7+ hours on the road. We left, I believe, on a Friday afternoon. We were going to go directly to a lodge at Mammoth, sleep that night, ski on Saturday and Sunday, and head back Sunday afternoon.
I remember driving through the San Bernardino Valley east of LA. Suddenly, as we drove higher in elevation, I was startled to see a clear sky. Looking in my rear and side mirrors, I saw a dingy brown cloud hovering over the valley behind us.
We got to Mammoth late, time just to check in and get to sleep. The next morning, I got to see Mammoth for the first time. It was big. The mountain summit is just over 11,000 feet in elevation. The base is at 9,000 feet elevation. This was now a new personal record for highest elevation.
Back in those days, the manner in which to select the length of your rental skis, I was told, was to raise your hand above your head. The tip of the skis standing parallel to your body should match the top of your fingertips. Big mistake by me.
Mammoth had its normal huge amount of snow. During the previ0us night, however, there had been a warm spell and rain. By morning, the surface of the snow had turned to ice. Rather thick ice. When I put on my skis and attempted really to do anything on them, I slipped and slid. I tried to use my poles, but had to pound the “snow” surface several times to get through the ice.
Aiming just to use the “bunny slope” for my first efforts, I tried to go on the ski lift there, which I believe was a T-lift. After several embarrassing falls within a couple of feet, I decided not to prevent others from getting on the slope. I tried then just to sidestep a few yards up the bunny slope and attempt to “ski” down. I fell to my left sometimes and to my right sometimes, but I always fell, landing most prominently on the ice on either of my hips.
I likely tried that for a couple of hours before a lunch break and probably a beer. I think I was the only person in our group in my predicament. The others were more advanced than me in their ability to ski, a status easily achieved. A few more hours of the same in the afternoon brought my first day of “skiing” to a close.
If we partied that night in the lodge, I don’t recall. I may well have been too tired and sore. If I tried to ski on Sunday, I also don’t recall. I do remember feeling very sore. I believe that after driving us home and getting up Monday morning, I saw that each of my hips featured a dinner plate-sized purple bruise.
So yes, I skied California 50 years ago and I still remember the pain. I’ve skied California since, in the 1980s, when we lived in the Bay Area. With two granddaughters born in New Hampshire living in SoCal with me now, who say they miss the snow, maybe I’ll try again. With shorter skis.