What with missing work on Wednesday due to the accident I was more behind than usual yesterday and so didn’t manage to write up a trip report. Now, however, I’m caught up to my normal level of behindness, so I can report away. First, though, a post-accident update: physically, I appear to have suffered only a scrape on my elbow—I thought my muscles would be sore from gripping the steering wheel so hard but I haven’t really felt any more aches and pains than usual the past couple days. I’ve talked to a couple of different people at the insurance company, and the truck has made it from the impound lot where it was first towed to the body shop, but we’re still waiting for an adjuster to come and look at it. The body shop is on my way to/from work, so I got to see the poor truck sitting there in their parking lot all smashed up. Sad.
Not sad: vacation. Mr. and I flew to Boise and drove up to McCall to re-visit Brundage and Tamarack, which we’d skied at for the first time last winter. We weren’t blessed with as good snow conditions this time, but we did have at least some fresh for three of our four ski days—true, one day it was pretty close to fresh slush instead of fresh powder but that was better than the rain I feared based on the weather in town that morning, and it was at least entertaining weather, what with the shifts from hail to sleet to snow (tiny balls, needles, flakes, clumps) seemingly every few minutes.
We picked a hotel closer to downtown this trip, thinking we could walk to dinner. That would have been a good plan except for the fact that the sidewalks ended several blocks away and the shoulders of the road were piled with snow, making the trip rather difficult. We did it once and that was enough. The plan would have worked if we’d stayed in the one hotel downtown, but they were scheduled to be without power one night due to construction so that was a no go. Maybe we’ll try it next time, though it might be hard to resist returning to the Scandia Inn. Sure, the rooms may lack drawer space and one has to bring one’s own hair dryer, but there’s parking right outside the door and an almost-quilt on the wall and themed decorating the likes of which I’ve never seen before: there were 18 representations of bears (or parts thereof) in our room, plus one more on the outside of the door. (Other rooms, which I peeked in after the guests checked out and the maid left the drapes open, appeared to be similarly adorned with moose and deer.)
We took one afternoon off from skiing to walk around town and I was delighted to find a block that had both a yarn store and a quilt shop. Mr. Karen was perhaps less delighted by this discovery, though the yarn shop lady sure did seem to like him and talked to him about fishing lures (he doesn’t fish) and roving (he doesn’t spin) and I don’t know what all while I browsed. This was the first yarn shop I’d been in where the stock was arranged primarily by color—all the yellow yarns together regardless of brand or weight or fiber content, etc. It sure looked pretty. There was also a dog in the yarn store, which was a very nice touch. I got to see a lot of dogs this trip, including an absolutely adorable 8-week old puppy in a ski shop—I was hoping to see him again when we stopped by a second time; he was hiding somewhere but I did get to see his froggy toy, which was fun because we’d heard about froggy disappearing on our earlier visit.
Also fun: discovering a pocket in my ski coat I didn’t know about. It’s hidden next to the zipper underneath the storm flap and is really quite handy. I’m somewhat chagrined that I went so many years without noticing it, but I’m happy I finally did. It’s perfect for stashing my little packet of tissues—easy to access while sitting on the lift and I don’t have to unzip my coat to get to it.
Not fun: falling off the platter tow, right in front of a five- or six-year-old kid, who looked at me with what I think was disdain as he got pulled on past me. I had to ski back down and do that lift again just so I could prove I could do it right.
Also not enjoyable: Dropping one of my gloves (not a ski one this time) somewhere in downtown McCall and having to backtrack to look for it, worrying the shops would close before I could get back to them. As I was hustling along, I saw a woman picking something up off the sidewalk and setting it on a bench—my glove. Yay. I would have been sad to lose it—not only are they purple, but I bought them in France to cheer myself up after losing my Pope-on-the-slopes hat I’d had almost forever, so they have sentimental value. (I really have got to be more careful with my things, don’t I?)
The pictures are here.
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