Awakened by Snow and the Promise of Fun on Slopes

Here we are heading into the mountains, high in the sky with all the beautiful people, three of whom are in the back seat.

“What’s that smell?” one of the beautiful people asks.

“Smells like toothpaste,” another one says.

Apparently, beautiful people like these have a highly advanced sense of smell. Sort of like wild animals.

“I think it smells like pencils,” one of them says.

“It’s fresh air,” I say. “Can’t hurt you.”

“Smells like toothpaste to me,” someone says, rolling up the window to keep the strange smell out.

We’re off in search of a little winter, the rental skis and snowboards in the back, the Dramamine in their bellies for the long mountain drive.

Up and up the curvy road we go, praying that the Dramamine will work, offering to stop if someone needs a break. So far, so good. Mostly, they sleep. Beautiful people are great at sleep.

“How much longer?” one of them mumbles.

“About half an hour,” I say.

We come up skiing a couple of times a year--just often enough to never really improve--up to the small but beautiful resorts that ring the mountains around L.A.

The closer we get, the more the kids wake up, their eyes widening and beginning to sparkle, like people heading to a prom.

“Everybody OK?” I ask, as we close in on the resort.

“I smell a McDonald’s,” somebody says.

They know it is God’s work, this snow. And the deeper it gets, the more spiritual they become, trading M&M;’s and treating one another with respect. Sometimes, they’ll even go five or 10 minutes without fighting.

“Everybody OK?” I ask again, worried that maybe they fell out the back.

“We’re OK,” they say. “Want an M&M;?”

We get there in two hours, then spend two more hours getting our coats and skis on, crawling through the car, looking for gloves and extra socks, then sitting on the back bumper, struggling with the ski boots.

“Push!” I tell my older daughter.

“I am!” my older daughter says.

Now, there are a lot of techniques for putting on stiff and heavy ski boots. We prefer the Lamaze method.

“Push!” I say.

“I’m trying!” my older daughter says.

Like all Lamaze coaches, I am unfailingly upbeat. Even when they’re blaming me for all their pain.

“Breathe,” I say. “You have to breathe.”

“OK,” she cries, gasping for air.

Of all the ways to put on ski boots, the Lamaze method has been the best for us. Developed by a French doctor, it combines special breathing techniques and sheer madness into a system that--in less than half an hour--guarantees to get a kid’s foot into a ski boot. Hardly ever does it require any drugs.

“Push!” I tell the next kid, as she sits on the back bumper, her gloves falling into the snow as she struggles with the boot.

“I’m trying,” she yells.

Finally, we are on the ski slopes, exhausted from putting on our gear but exhilarated too, because when you spend this kind of money on anything, you’d better feel pretty darned exhilarated.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” I say, gazing up at the mountain.

“What’s that smell?” my older daughter asks.

“Corn dogs,” the boy says, sniffing at the breeze.

The boy, of course, is a snow boarder--a special breed of athlete known for his great fashion sense and ability to venture out of bounds and get lost on the wrong side of any mountain.

Dressed like chimney sweeps, they form little clusters at the top of each lift, sitting in the snow and letting their butts fully freeze, which apparently is the first thing a snow boarder must do. Once the butt is ready, down the hill they go.

“Let’s go, Dad,” the boy says, eager to go sit in the snow.

“Don’t get lost,” I say.

“OK,” he says.

Up the ski lift we go, watching the other skiers below and listening to the ski instructors yodel, “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” up and down the hill, urging their students to turn their ski tips inward, like a wedge of pizza.

Right below us, we spot one lucky skier who has slid to the edge of the run and is clutching a snow fence.

“What’s he doing?” the little girl asks.

“Maybe he’s fixing the snow fence,” I say.

“Dad, I think he’s stuck in the fence,” my older daughter says.

“At least he’s having fun,” I say.

At the top of the hill, the boy and his older sister go off on their own. The little girl and I, meanwhile, stand and watch a moment, memorizing the view and trying to get our ski muscles to remember what to do.

“Remember to make your pizza, Dad,” the little girl says.

“I will,” I say.

“See you at the bottom,” she says.

“OK,” I say.

I start to go. She doesn’t. I stop.

“Hold my hand?” she asks, remembering the guy stuck in the snow fence.

“No way,” I say.

“Just once?” she begs.

“Just once,” I say.

“Pizza!” she yells.

And hand-in-hand, we tumble down the hill.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.