Diary of One Man’s Snowbound Family

Weekend in the mountains, a father’s story:

We’re headed to this little hill in the eastern Sierra, L.A.’s sprawling backyard. We stop in Bishop for Chinese food and gas. Later, we fill up the car.

“Dad, I’ve got gas,” the boy says.

“No kidding,” I say.

It’s cold, but it’s a dry cold. It’s 30 but feels 40. I’m 40 but feel 30.

I ride the last 100 miles on a soft wallet, spongy with vacation cash. The night is clear. A million stars fill the sky. Heaven’s nightlights.

Somewhere up here, there’s a ski resort. Mammoth Mountain, they call it. Mount Wobegon.

Weekend in the mountains, a little girl’s story:

Dad keeps telling us to look at the stars.

“Kids, look at all those stars,” he says.

“Great stars, Dad,” we say.

I can’t wait to get to Mammoth. All my friends are going. My dad says it’s going to be too many people and everyone will run over his nice rental skis.

“That’s what skiing is all about,” my mom says.

“Yeah, chill, Dad,” my brother says.

My mom makes me drink lots of water on account of she thinks it’ll stop altitude sickness. So I drink, like, 4 gallons of water on the way up, then have to go bathroom. A lot.

“Good idea on the water, honey,” my dad says.

“Look at all those stars,” says my mom.

Weekend in the mountains, a boy’s story:

Mammoth is the best. It’s sort of like Disneyland, except there’s a lot more people.

At Mammoth, they have all these trails, and you can get away from the skiers anytime you want. I hate skiers. My dad’s a skier, and I don’t hate him, but I hate all the other skiers. They act like they own the mountain or something.

If I could do one thing forever, it would be snowboard. I love to snowboard, especially at Mammoth.

My dad says that, from his experience, snowboarders are evil people who never bathe or brush their teeth.

“Dad, snowboarding is the sport of kings,” I tell him.

“Dirty kings,” he says, “who never brush their teeth.”

Weekend in the mountains, a mother’s story:

I spent three days packing. Mittens, scarves, hats. I’m running around like a rabbit, and all he does is watch the Winter Olympics.

“I’m getting psyched for snow,” my husband says.

“How about getting packed for snow,” I say.

“I’d rather get psyched,” he says.

Just before we leave, he packs three T-shirts, a sweater and a pair of jeans. Then I add the clothes he really needs.

And five bottles of Trader Joe’s wine.

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Weekend in the mountains, a father’s story:

It takes a ski village to raise a child.

So I’m standing near Chair 16, surrounded by a dozen children, all of whom look the same in their snow hats and goggles.

One mother is off searching for her 10-year-old son. At least two other kids in our group have been missing for an hour.

“I saw Sean,” a kid tells me.

“Where?”

“On the back of a snowmobile,” she says.

Great. We are up here with seven families with a total of 39 kids. In only the first day, I have lost eight parents and at least four of the kids.

“Let’s have lunch,” I say.

“Yes!” say the kids.

Canyon Lodge is the Ellis Island of lunch. Every table is taken, by shivering masses, wondering how they got here and if they’ll ever, ever see home again.

“Where should we sit?” the little girl asks.

“Acapulco,” I say.

Of all the athletic challenges I will face this ski weekend, nothing will match carrying a $40 tray of food through jampacked Canyon Lodge while wearing ski boots and four layers of clothes.

“Over here, Dad,” the little girl yells, and 30 dads turn around.

When we finally find a table, the kids eat three bites of their $8 burgers. You could feed Argentina with what they leave on their plates.

Not that Argentina would eat it, necessarily. Cheesy to a fault, ski resort food coagulates even before it enters your bloodstream.

“This is great,” the little girl says, chomping on a chili fry.

“The best,” I say.

Weekend in the mountains, a little girl’s story:

You should’ve seen my dad putting on the tire chains in that blizzard we had. First, he lays the chains in the snow and tries to read the directions. Then he crumples up the directions and throws them in the car.

“Stupid directions,” he says.

Then he comes back into the condo and tells my mom that installing chains is like putting braces on your own teeth, with ski mittens on.

“You can do it, honey,” says my mom, who’s always saying things like that.

Then his friend Will goes to help him with the chains. Like, two hours later, they come marching in, all done with the chains.

“Piece of cake,” Will says.

“Yeah, cake,” says my dad.

Weekend in the mountains, a father’s story:

I am sore in places I cannot touch. I am sore in other people’s places. I am sore in future lives.

My wallet is empty, and my knee hurts as if filled with buckshot.

Last night at dinner, I paid 22 bucks for a $12 piece of fish.

Fortunately, there’s a hot tub.

Weekend in the mountains, a boy’s story:

One time at Mammoth, I got my head stuck in the gondola.

Weekend in the mountains, a mother’s story:

It’s really fun up here. The kids, the parents, the lost ski boots. I just looked outside. It’s snowing sideways.

If we run out of wine, we are doomed. Seriously, irrevocably doomed.

Weekend in the mountains, a father’s story:

Anybody seen the corkscrew?

*

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