Ski Cataloochee

Skiing Cattaloochee by Liz Alley

My sister Lynn and I drove up the mountain into North Carolina, close enough to our mountain town to be familiar. We were headed to Maggie Valley to ski at Cataloochee. As a teenager, I loved to ski and learned how on the icy mix of Sky Valley. It had been over 25 years since I’d been to Cataloochee but there we were, in our fifties going to give it a whirl, well, hopefully not a whirl. Well, hopefully not a whirl as that could involve broken bones. We stopped for lunch at a local diner. I love diners and I look for them whenever I travel. I like the diners where the parking lot is filled with Fords and Chevys and this was one of those. There was not one car outfitted with ski racks and out of state plates. This diner was not on the list my cell phone provided under “places to eat near me” as these old diners don’t usually have an internet presence. They are there for the folks who know where they are. I felt at home in this diner where the people had accents that were familiar to me and where old men stood in line and talked about the rising gas prices and how our country was going to…well, let’s just say a hand basket was involved with the destination. I like diners where waitresses are not frazzled by the clangity clang of the lunch crowd and where they call me “Honey” or “Sweet Pea” but not in that inauthentic condescending way. I like diners that make their own chili and coleslaw for their hotdogs and take pride in informing me of that. Afterall, this is important information because we all know coleslaw can be tricky, especially on hotdogs. Nobody wants deli coleslaw on a hotdog. Also, no Southerner wants coleslaw too runny or too chunky, period. But, on a hotdog, the coleslaw has to be just right, and this diner had it down pat. I like hearing the conversations around me at diner. On this day, someone called across the room to a woman seated alone in what looked like a patchwork quilt turned jacket and said “Irene, how’s Buford a doing?” And without cracking a smile shouted back “still mean as a snake.” I liked everything about this diner which made me reluctant to leave but, today the mountains were calling and they were saying “come on and ski girls” so, we went. A few years ago, this same sister and I went to Colorado to ski and visit her son and my nephew, Tucker. He worked at the ski slope in Vail. Oh the trickle-down perks that came with that job. Upon arrival, Tucker treated us white glove service. Well, white ski glove service! He fetched our gear for us. He put our boots on our feet and buckled them. If you’ve ever skied, you know this is no small feat.( No pun intended, maybe a little) He procured our complimentary lift tickets and pointed us to the lift, and like a dream we moseyed up the mountain. At Cataloochee this was a horse of a different color. I had forgotten how exhausting preparing to ski can be, especially at this age. Lynn and I were unfamiliar with Cataloochee so like cattle we followed other people to lines that read “Boot Rental”, “Ski Rental” and so forth. That was nothing compared to actually putting the ski boots on. At one point while trying to bend over and snap one of her buckles, Lynn said “I think I just cracked a rib.” I, wanting to assist, put all the strength my arms had into the buckle landing me in the snow in front of her. My own buckled feet, I realized, felt like two sausages in their casings. I must say when we finally made our way to the lift I was wondering if skiing had been such a good idea after all. After a couple of short runs on an easy trail we decided to go to the harder ones. At the top of the mountain we saw two blue trails and one black diamond trail named “The Alleycat.” We agreed it was fate and down we went. It was on that trail it all became worth it, as for eight minutes the wind was in my face, my skis made that rhythmic sound of a zig zag on snow and all that had lain dormant in me about how to ski came rushing back. For eight glorious minutes, I was 16 again. Over and over we skied that trail until the light grew dim and with each run, my spirit was in sync with the mountains. It was a beautiful thing. On the way home, we drove past the local diner but this time the parking lot was full of Fords and Chevys for the supper crowd. We drove past motels with names like “Mountain View, Mountain Lakes, Mountain Mama” and such. We passed a barbeque joint called “Butts in the Creek” and indeed it was by the creek and I assume the butts belonged to the pigs. We passed dirt roads with names like “Hog Pen Road”. Lynn and I agreed it should be located next to “Slop Bucket Road” in Rabun County. Soon, we were back to our spot on the map, Clayton. We stopped for dinner at one of our own local places where I ran into a couple I went to school with , all the way from 1st to 12th grades. I sat at their table and asked them questions like “How’s your mama n ‘em?” They told me and it filled me to the brim. “These mountains” I thought on my way home “these mountains with fog rolling off them and covering us like soup. I sure do love these mountains.”