By Mia Steere
Spring 2007 Kaplan Award Winner
Growing up surrounded by snow-sport enthusiasts should have inspired me to follow suit; however, as the youngest child and only girl, I found myself constantly left behind. Since last place was never a comfortable spot for me, I opted to take a break from the slopes. My hiatus from the mountains lasted from the time I was 10 until just this last winter. I’m 26 years old. Moving back to Seattle after living in the Mediterranean for over half a decade, I realized that the winters here are long – I should probably learn to enjoy them. Brian, my then-boyfriend, now-fiancé, has been an avid snowboarder since he was quite young; it seemed logical that I pick the same sport. So, on a cold November morning, I hauled myself out of bed and tossed some oversized men’s youth board pants on over some nearly see-through long underwear. With the addition of an outdated ski jacket and – thank goodness, something fashionable! – a brand-spanking new pair of K2 snowboard boots, courtesy of my brother, I was ready to go. We drove up to SnoqualmiePass, and thus commenced a love affair.
“It’s like Cheers,” Brian tried to explain to me during one of our visits early in the season. Except, instead of knowing your name, people often only recognize you by your board pants or coat. How awful! Everyone would be associating me not with my name, which I actually happen to like, but with my disaster of a snowboard ensemble? Imagine a smallish girl, wearing enormous ski pants. They have a jagged hem because she had to borrow scissors from a cashier to cut them off; they used to drag three feet behind her. Her coat – a gift from a previous boyfriend and white, once upon a time – is warm, but that is all. When dressed in full snowboarding attire, she bears a strong resemblance to a dirty marshmallow, with a touch of purple and bad pants. Really bad pants. Finish her off with an ugly pair of mittens (gloves are too long for her fingers) and an itchy hat.
This sad little person was me, for almost an entire snowboard season.
Throughout the winter, it was patiently explained to me by my well-intentioned boyfriend that ski coats are just not the same as snowboard coats, never mind that they serve very similar purposes. The ski and snowboard industries are unique subcultures with their own style; fashion is an integral part of the snow sport experience. (I learned this the hard way, as I had been forced to just throw on whatever hideously mismatched outfit I could put together.) I got it, but Brian just couldn’t believe that, if I truly did get it, I would continue to embarrass myself, and him – guilt by association – by wearing the same outfit.
Since I was a beginner, I wanted to tough it out until my snowboarding improved; I claimed that my status as a beginner didn’t yet warrant any awards of new clothing. In truth, I simply didn’t want any attention-attracting outfit drawing eyes to my pathetic efforts. When I was better, I would change my outfit. Then, my new outfit would be associated with a good snowboarder, rather than someone losing an endless and very painful battle with gravity. It seemed like a good plan, and it was. But lord, those few months were a lesson in humility!
With every year that goes by, an extra dollop of caution has been added to my sense of awareness. As a result, I’ve learned to fear pain. Like any reasonable adult, I don’t like to fall down. Unfortunately, the only way to learn how to snowboard is to do this, over and over, many, many times. Since I no longer practiced the high art of falling, I lacked grace in this movement. Think of a duck. Strap its feet to a rectangular object, and go bowling with the duck – you get the idea. Not only was my outfit humiliating, the act of snowboarding in general took my ego – normally at a nice, rather high level – to some new low points.
As the season continued, I did improve. Thank goodness, or I might still be in that same embarrassing outfit – I now have super chic, super styley (yeah, it’s a word!) pants that other people actually compliment, and an equally stylin’ jacket. I, with the help of my faithful alarm clock, Brian, made it up to the Pass over 50 times this winter. Thanks to repetitive motion, and the extreme motivational techniques of my expert fiancé (I will never forget crying at the top of the mountain, with Brian yelling “I cannot believe that you are going SO SLOW, my feet are falling asleep!), I now feel comfortable on a board more often than not.
However, it was never the thrill of snowboarding that got me up at 7 a.m. to go ride the mountain. It most certainly was not the incessant “Get up, get up, we’re going to miss first chair!” that would be chorused to me without fail, every Saturday morning by my exuberant coach and counterpart. (Brian turns into an eight-year-old on Christmas morning during snowboard season. Very irritating for someone who considers noon a good time to wake up.) No, it was the promise of the Timberwolf that got me out of my nice warm bed and – eyes closed – into the bathroom to brush my teeth before the sun came up. I would take off my favorite outfit – my pink plaid jammies – and grudgingly get into the hated, mismatched snowsuit because the dream of spiked hot chocolate, a warm fire, and “kickin’ crab corn chowder” awaited me after the day’s suffering was over. I can honestly say that the Timberwolf Lodge is probably every bit as responsible for my improved snowboarding skills as are my own physical efforts.
The “T-wolf,” as regulars have dubbed it, is an “après – as well as pre and before – ski” bar and hangout located at Summit West. For those unfamiliar with SnoqualmiePass, it has four main ski areas: Summit West, Summit Central, Summit East and Alpental. West features groomed night skiing, and easier hills for beginners; therefore, park riders – those who prefer big air or rails – are drawn to Central, and advanced shredders looking for more “extreme” conditions are drawn to the lure of riding back country at Alpental. Summit East is a draw for “old-school” skiers, or those trying to avoid the crowds. However, when the limbs are exhausted and the snow is tracked out, the most devoted soldiers of the Summit faithfully migrate to Summit West, and the Timberwolf’s warm, inviting glow.
Taking up the entire second floor of the Slide Inn Lodge, the Timberwolf is open only to those over the age of 21. And that’s a good thing, because amazing drinks like the Faceplant live here. Creamy and sweet, with just enough bite, these drinks are definitely T-R-O-U-B-L-E. Hot chocolate, white rum, peppermint schnapps and a liberal dousing of whipped cream will knock you flat on your – face. Cold Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR, pronounced “pee-ber”) delivers that “value” taste for the economists. The lodge has a full bar, but regulars tend to stick to the blue ribbon specials or signature drinks, such as the aforementioned Faceplant. Not only are they delicious, the bartenders consistently produce extra-potent versions for consistent customers. Whether it’s the higher altitude, that extra shot your favorite bartender snuck in your drink, or the excitement of near-death experiences, those who party at the T-wolf seem to arrive at a state of boisterous drunkenness a bit more rapidly – and with a tad more gusto – than at normal bars.
While crazy partying is standard fare at the T-wolf, it is not always the case, especially during the mellower daylight hours. Then, large groups –usually comprised of ski instructors – congregate during lunch to share a large BBQ chicken pizza (delicious!) and a few (meaning three or four, maybe more!) pitchers of Snoqualmie IPA. Single skiers are stationed along the bar or mill around, conversing. Couples, sometimes wearing matching outfits – so adorable – are dotted around the room, seated at the smaller tables; you can almost see that endless strand of spaghetti, connecting them in Disney-esque love.
There are even a few members, most of who still believe that the “onesie” with suspenders is the height of slope-style fashion, who – at 12 o’clock – have already been on the hill for hours. These individuals– a group that unfortunately, thanks to Brian, included myself most days – believe it is their duty to be sitting on the chairlift before it’s even begun to move for the day. They lounge, happily exhausted, on worn sofas, with their loosened boots resting in front of a large stone fireplace.
Everyone is comfortable here.
The Timberwolf, really just one giant space with high ceilings and rustic exposed beams, is filled with the smells of firewood smoke, homemade pizza and melting snow. As a rather smell-oriented person, I would say that the Timberwolf’s aroma is its essence. Some might say that people create the setting of a place, but I disagree. People come and go, crowds rotate or change, and with them so does the scenery and the mood. The smell at the lodge is consistent, unchanging and, to me, always appealing.
SnowboardingIf I close my eyes, I can take a deep breath and still know that I am at the Timberwolf, and I am home for the winter.