The edge of Thundersaddle.

Martin Luther King's Day is a January holiday that schools and government institutions observe, but not regular employers. Our kids' school had also planned teachers' training for Friday, thus creating four days off for our children, but not for my Hippo. Our plan was pretty clear: why kick around at home when we can be in the mountains? Moreover, Rumiko had promised to bring Bryce along, and in the last moment before departure I discovered that Rýzls, too, were readying to ski on Sunday and Monday — arranging out holiday together was a child's play, then.

Tom hesitating on top of Chamoix.

I had set out with our children on Thursday noon, to be there during daylight, manage to start the fireplace, eat and generally acclimatize before Friday's skiing. This time it would be much better than at the start of the season, when rapid changes in elevation (Kirkwood is at 8 thousand feet) were rather unpleasant. Bryce (and Rumiko and Martin) had arrived on Friday, and after obligatory welcoming, running and screaming, we succeeded to kick our offspring onto the slopes. I would like to point out a fact that Lisa was able to dress, pack, carry out ALL the skis and poles out from the hallway, and still play in a snowbank, before Rumiko and I completed pushing Tom and Bryce out, equipping them with all gloves, helmets, and other things. I don't know what makes boys so slow.

Thanks to Martin and Rumiko the forces were balanced between adults and children, and we could take turns. Sometimes Martin took the kids to a bit more difficult parts, sometimes I could join a fast group, other times I could linger with Rumiko and a part of the children on blue runs, practicing turns. Easy going, except perhaps for the moment when I let them talk me into joining Martin and Tom on Chamoix, a double-black-diamond gully. Tom looked taken aback, but slid down; I cowardly shuffled through the narrowest spot on my edges — I somehow had the feeling I could not make a turn there, and I really did not dare to have close encounters with local rocks.

Kids played together in the afternoon, which had reinforced my conviction that if they have friends along, they are much less obnoxious and tantrum-prone. It was a pleasant day. Hippo with Vendula had arrived later in the evening, accompanied by her colleague Scott, and suddenly the "cottage" filled up. On Saturday morning we had still skied together with Bryce, but when we were leaving for lunch, Martin declared categorically that Bryce would not have lunch and would ski instead. We had attempted and failed to re-join them later in the afternoon.

Skiing is always more fun with friends.

Fortunately for the kids, Ryzls had arrived on Sunday, and again we had company to ski with. Tom had immediately convinced Anička to sweep various gullies and runs off the maintained slopes, and we took turns in separating. It's good that Kirkwood is all interconnected by many traverses, alternating more and less difficult terrain, and it was easy to split and re-join within several minutes at the bottom of the slope while getting there through various levels of difficulty.

I had convinced Hippo to take the kids and our guests into the hot tub after skiing, and I managed to fit in a lap on cross-country skis with Vendula. I admit that after populated runs and day-long yelling of the children, a quiet track is a great relief.

Workers (Vendula, Scott and Hippo) had departed again in the evening and the "cottage" was left to me, our kids and the Rýzls. Monday skiing went down easy — relaxed by the fact that we were three adults on four children, I did not even make Tom pack a cellphone along. I always go last to occasionally collect dropped gear (poles, skis, children) and possibly deal with crises. Then, on the finish flats, I usually get ahead of the juniors, using my additional momentum to carry me across without having to walk to the lift. After all, what could go wrong there?

Kirkwood Panorama.

I was going thus, and saw Tom on the flat to make a turn between little trees, where a well-worn ditch ended with a little jump, a very popular feature with the kids. I stopped at the lift, waiting for Tom — he's nowhere to be seen. One minute, two, three... Míša and I began to walk back to the grove and I cursed myself for not having insisted on the cellphone — how simple it would have been to call Tom and find out if it was a banal thing or if there was a true crisis and I should seek out first aid right away.

Fortunately for us, before we were able to reach the grove, Tom emerged, holding and dragging his skis behind. I felt relieved that he was walking and coherent enough to collect his gear. Tom, however, was in a state of shock, for he had, during his jump, torn his binding straight from the ski — first he did not expect it (neither did I; a binding should release, not rip out four screws), and then he was unhappy to have "ruined his skis".

I sent Míša back on the slope with the rest of the expedition, and took Tom to find out how much it would cost to fix the ski, and then to the "cottage" where we store a pair of 130 cm skis; Tom would get the spares and could go back to skiing. But Tom said he did not want to ski, he'd rather wait at the "cottage". This started the domino effect — when Tom had not returned back to the slop, Anička decided to give him company and soon thereafter Andrejka began to whimper that she was hungry, and Lisa naturally wanted to stay with the other kids, and the whole expedition collapsed into a single skier — Martin.

As a cross-country skier, one moves through a beautiful nature.

The demoralized team has voted after lunch to go play in the snow, while Míša and I began packing and cleaning. Meanwhile I consulted with Hippo that we would have Tom's skis fixed, and had to quickly run to the shop. To not just complain about Vail, I must say that the dude at the shop was pleasant — just like the majority of their employees.

On account of having returned from Kirkwood already on Monday, we decided to slight the next weekend. I took off on Friday with Pavel and Vendula, and Hippo with the kids followed on Sunday. I took advantage of my family being late and finally got out on a longer cross-country run. Vendulka went along in the end, and that was probably good. I felt an oncoming cold and would have slacked off on my own; this way we had covered most trails beyond the highway. According to the pamphlet they are supposed to be medium difficult, about three-mile laps. Well, the first one was perhaps a little over a mile, including a view-point detour, the other ones were not much better. Theoretically we had collected over twelve miles throughout the day, in reality it was certainly less.

The track is quiet, no humming lifts, no screaming kids.

Kirkwood Inn is located next to the cross-country center, a historic pub of Zachary Kirkwood, and they serve beer and various goodies to eat. Both for extortionate prices, but when you deliver quality athletic performance, you are entitled to some refreshments, and thus Vendulka and I had refreshed ourselves properly.

In the afternoon I really felt the advancing illness, and beer had truly not added to my agility; I had barely managed to crawl to the "cottage" where Hippo and the kids had arrived in the meantime. Juniors had earned a stern talking-to — they had failed to bring back their plastic sleigh discs on the previous weekend. I had not noticed, having been busy packing and cleaning, and we had departed without the discs. Now I chased them out to look for them; perhaps they got stuck in a snowbank. To my surprise we found them propped against the next building, and it took much steam out of my righteous anger.

On Sunday morning we woke up into a mild snowing. Alas, four inches of powder on top of a frozen base were not very comfortable to ski. By noon the runs alternated in frozen sheets and heaps of soft snow, and we concluded that it would be safer and healthier to drive back home. Pavel and Vendula had also given up on downhill skiing and took to cross-country. I was envying them — the tracks on the meadow were certainly soft and nice, and they surely did not have to desperately slip on uphills and rush on icy downhills like the day before. But I felt so miserable that envy was all I had left — I was in no shape to run through the woods there.