My Russian Ski Trip

In addition to everything else that I've done in Russia, I can now say that I've skied one of Russia's most elite ski resorts. Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich (Putin) himself has swished down the very same ski slopes that I have, although he probably fell a lot less than I did. He said that skiing at Baikal'sk, located at the southern tip of Lake Baikal overlooking a massive bay and Russia's largest paper mill, is every bit as good as skiing in Switzerland. Again, I'm going to have to play the skeptic, but I did have a really good time. And that's me skiing below!

This is the third time that I've ever been downhill skiing. The first was on the gentle slopes of the ironically-named Afton Alps (can there not be good skiing outside of Switzerland?) in the bluffs overlooking the St. Croix River outside Minneapolis. The second time was on the bunny hill at Marshall Mountain outside Missoula, where I watched my Korean roommate mow down an entire post-Christmas tow line of small children as she desperately tried and failed to snowplow. Needless to say, we didn't make it past the bunny hill. We almost didn't make it off the bunny hill, given the looks from some of the parents. So I didn't exactly have a pile of experience to bring to bear. But I've always wanted to learn, so when my friend Carolyn, who's been skiing since she was 4 and is patient to a nearly inhuman degree, suggested that we all go celebrate Defenders of the Fatherland Day on the slopes at Baikal'sk, I was ready to go.

The skiing itself was wonderful. I've found yet another hobby that I cannot do in Illinois. After a couple of days of falling, I suddenly discovered that I could make it from the top to the bottom of the mountain without spending more time on my butt than on my skis. And right about then it was time to go home. Considerably more difficult than the skiing was mastering the t-bar lift. On Day 1, Kate and I fell off the t-bar no less than six times between the two of us. Once, we did so in spectacular fashion. After a couple of wipeouts at the base of the hill, we'd managed to get fairly far up the slope. All of a sudden, I realized that my upper body was moving much faster than my feet. As you can imagine, this was a very concerning development. I started to worry, and Kate kept reassuring me, saying, "You're OK, you're OK." My feet kept getting further behind me, and so a few seconds later, all that was left was for me to whimper, "But I'm not OK" and fall off the t-bar face first onto the trail, taking Kate down with me. We then had to slide halfway down the mountain trying desperately not to get run over by the skiers and snowboarders on their way up the hill. Shockingly enough, the Russian lift system is not designed for user safet or comfort, unlike what I imagine about Switzerland.

Day 2 brought thrills and chills. Markers in Russia have always been low quality, but I had never in my life thought that this quality issue would touch me so deeply. The three of us stood at the base of the mountain staring at a giant map of the slope and trying to decide where to go next. We saw a path that looked like it was colored green, which even in crazy Russia means "beginner," down a side of the mountain we hadn't been down, and decided to go for it. We got about halfway down it with a respectable number of wipeouts when all of a sudden we came to the top of a tiny rise after which it seemed like the mountain dropped straight into the lake. Turned out our nice little beginner trail was actually labeled black, not green. Even in crazy Russia with its not particularly serious ski culture, black means "advanced." We made it down with nothing broken, hooray, and I now have a highly inflated opinion of my own skills. A gold star for Carolyn for her confident coaching and emergency management!

Day 3 was our last day. Carolyn and I went skiing again, while Kate, much more dedicated to work than I, wandered around town and got the scoop on the notorious Baikal'sk paper mill, which is the source of all those reports that Lake Baikal is hideously polluted. The mill was shut down in November, although we're not sure if it's because of environmental reasons or the current economic troubles. We had planned to celebrate our last day and steam some of our aches away in a Russian steam bath constructed out of ice blocks on the frozen lake. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, the Russian banya is a two-step process: first, you roast yourself in a sweat room, and then you run out and cool off in whatever manner is available at the time. You're supposed to go through this cycle three times. Most of the time, I end up cooling off in a cold shower, although one time I did dive into a snow pile. The option available at this place was a dip in frozen-over Baikal itself. I heard grown men shriek like guinea pigs when they jumped in. With masochistic bravado, I had promised Kate and Carolyn, who had said they'd dip their feet in, that I'd go in all the way. Fortunately, I was saved from my foolish, foolish words by a typically-Russian scheduling mishap, so I never actually had to pony up. Part of me still wanders what it would have been like, though. Instead, we sat on the shore of the lake, looked at the starts, and drank wine until the wine turned to slush in the cups and our feet got really cold. Best Defenders of the Fatherland Day ever.