Little leaps of faith on the bunny hill

Here’s how Hemingway would see a ski hill: “A mountain will break a man. But with no special hurry.”

Here’s how Faulkner would see a ski hill: “The morning sun revealed folly and despair, and eyes the color of bourbon set into a wooden face.”

Here’s how I see a ski hill: “How much? Are you #!&*%^%$% kidding me?”

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Let’s ski,” the little guy says.

A buddy once described skiing as standing in a cold shower and tearing up $100 bills. Yet I insist on teaching the kids how to navigate a ski hill on rental skis that look like they’ve been gnawed on by a St. Bernard.

Suddenly, I need a beer.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Thirsty,” I say.

“Come on, let’s go.”

I’ll always have a soft spot for Big Bear Lake. This isn’t just a ski village; it’s a Garrison Keillor trilogy. It’s L.A.’s north woods.

Best of all, nothing ever seems to change here. Oh, they added that IHOP awhile back. And there’s now a fast-food joint as you come into town. But most things are just as they always were -- the terrific candy shop across the street from the steamy-windowed little diner. Praise the Lord and pass the ketchup.

So, this sun-kissed little snow globe seems the perfect place to teach the little guy how to ski.

For the occasion, his mother has wrapped him like wedding crystal, in seven layers of hand-me-downs, his protection against the severe mountain weather. He’s got his brother’s jacket and his sister’s smile. He’s so small you could set him on a butter knife.

Barely able to move, the little guy and I hit the bunny slopes. As any parent knows, the first hour of teaching a child to ski is a decathlon of tears, dropped mittens and runny noses. At one point, the little guy gets so tangled that one ski is pointing north and the other is pointing south.

“Ouch,” he whispers.

“Don’t you mean, ‘OUCH!’?” I ask, and lift him like a kitten from the back of his ski jacket.

In Hour 2, we try a chairlift. Now, nothing in life can prepare you for getting a 5-year-old on a chairlift -- poles, skis, the whole arsenal of pain. A chairlift is the modern equivalent of a guillotine, except you pay for the pleasure.

As we wait to board the lift, I can see the questions in the little guy’s eyes. Have you really thought this through? Does Mommy know we’re here?

He knows his dad pretty well by now. He knows I’ll pick a wine just because I like the label. He knows I’ll spend 15 minutes reading the weather page every morning. Is this really the kind of lunatic you entrust with your life? As the chairlift nears, he wiggles in close anyway, like a car tire rubbing the curb.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I say, as the chairlift whisks us up the hill, him half in my lap, curled in a fetal position.

“Whew, scary,” he huffs, looking down 30 feet.

In Hour 3, we pause for lunch. Over on the deck, 300 mojo sapiens (same as Homo sapiens, except with more sex drive and idle time) are sitting and lying on tables as rock music blares. The music is so bad that I go blind in one eye. I begin to sweat my breakfast. I decide to set my next novel right here: “No Country for Middle-Aged Men.”

“Where’s the food, Daddy?” the little guy asks.

Downstairs, of course.

Down the stairs we go in our ski boots -- clunk, ouch, clunk, ouch. Once in the cafeteria, we stop at a restroom, where the little guy has to peel away seven layers of clothing just to pee. Ninety minutes later, we are eating a fine and healthy lunch of pizza and Klondike bars.

“Hmmmm, good,” says the little guy, pizza sauce smeared across his face like war paint.

“You kidding? This is great,” I tell him.

“Dad?”

“Huh?”

“I need to pee,” he says.

Clunk, ouch, clunk, ouch . . .

Ninety minutes later, we are back on the ski hill. We have three hours left on our lift tickets. To quit now would be like giving up. We’re not the Donner Party, you know. We eat winter -- and Klondike bars -- for lunch.

Hey, Chair 6 looks like something we could handle. We stare up at it, wincing into the afternoon sun, the little guy’s eyes the color of bourbon. Halfway up, Chair 6 disappears into a carwash of clouds.

So, in a minute, will we.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. See his ranking of the local bunny hills in Sunday’s Travel section.