"She was wise, subtle and she knew more than one way to skin a cat."
Though I’m not really one for taxidermy, I’m open to the interpretative possibilities of this Mark Twain titbit, especially as regards winters and getting through them without skiing.
Due to time, finances and the realisation that universal access to a ski pass isn’t in any human rights mandate, this winter is shaping up to be a mostly ski-less season.
I know, I know, woe is us and all that. And how dare we go against the sacred code of YOLO and that commandment that says thou shalt revel in the snow whenceforth and all the time at such times as it still appears. The climate clock is ticking. It’s easy to succumb to snow FOMO. Or FOMOOS, perhaps - fear of missing out on snow. See what I did there? So much time to spend making jaunty acronyms when you don’t have to make ski lunches at 6.30am in order to join the car park race.
Of course, we bought the kids ski passes. Of course, since we don’t want to stunt their opportunities for fresh air, athletic improvement and social interaction. And, well, otherwise they might grow up deprived. Plus, the sacrificial Catholic gene is strong in me, and it’s such fun making yourself a martyr while looking at the snow report first thing in the morning or looking out of the mountain cafe window, thinking, teeth gritted, how lucky you are to be able to work in such an environment. Typing, extra hard, on your lucky, lucky keys. Being grateful. So grateful. Thinking about skinning all the ungrateful alive things. From the dorsal down. Alive. See, wise and subtle, me.
Still, there are other ways to skin a winter. For one, actual skins, on skis. Which, for the uninitiated, are magic stick-on things for the length of the bottom of your skis, with ultra glue on the ski side and synthetic hair on the other, so you can grip your way uphill. Which I tried for the first time last week. Which was fun in a snow-frothed-in-your-face-by-the-people-who-paid-money-for-lift-passes-going-downhill-past-you kind of way. Also, your thighs definitely know they’re alive. And your lungs. Unco and uncertain to start with. And then you get into the swing of it and there is so much time to pump blood and think about what to cook for dinner and how we treat women in politics and why nail varnish is even a thing.
I can’t believe I waited so long to give skins a go, though, to be fair, I’m not one of those lucky, lucky people who spent my childhood fluent-footed on and off piste. I don’t even remember meeting anyone my age that had been skiing until I went to university. Shopping was the sport of choice where I grew up - winter, summer and all the seasonal sales in between. So, in my defence (and I’m feeling very defensive), it’s relatively recently that I discovered skiing across and down, even, never mind up.
Skins feel like the start of well-earned turns (one and a-half hours up, eight and a-half minutes down) and choose-your-own adventures (the possibility of going backcountry when I get a lot more clued up), but part of the point of this winter was time otherwise pursued. The great outdoors isn’t so-called just because of the ability we have to strap on two planks in it. No. Oh no.
There are also the great and plentiful pleasures of landscaping, which include, but are not limited to, waving your arms around at piles of earth that are being "diggered" and making cups of tea in the digger breaks. Pacing out plants, bedding them in. Making bizarre, lopsided rabbit-deterring cages out of leftover chicken wire. Pruning trees. Tidying edges. Shovelling horse poo. Swearing at holey hoses. Lifting rocks. Placing rocks. Lifting. Replacing. Repeating. Thinking about potatoes. Definitely not checking Treble Cone’s Insta feed when you go inside to make yet another cup of tea. Or Pinterest to check the mismatch between shiny aspiration and your own gardening efforts. Or Google, just idly, asking how to skin a cat. 29,700,000 results, in case you’re wondering. And don’t click on "Images" unless you’re feeling particularly curious or brave.
