Blog : Alpine Valley

Lake Geneva Ski Season

Lake Geneva Ski Season

I write with disappointment today.  Today is opening day at Alpine Valley, the ski hill near Lake Geneva where my family spends considerable time during these coming winter months. Last week Monday was the day that I braved the cold, eschewed the wetsuit, and rode my Superjet from pier to pier and onto that winter trailer. The time lapsed from that day to this day exceeds one week. For the prior two years, the span was one week, no more. Last year it was three days. If you don’t believe me, check my Instagram. Everyone knows Instagram doesn’t lie.  This year I have failed. But I can’t run from it, because it’s something I cannot change. I can look to next year and seek redemption, but for 2018, the dye has been cast.

Alas, in spite of these failings, I know what must be done. I must ski. My son must ski and my wife must ski, and my daughter must board. She’s more of a falling leaf, but she has some terrific stickers on her board, which, as far as I can tell, makes up a significant part of the snowboarding culture.  We weren’t always this way, in fact, this ski thing is remarkably new to us. It was born of winter boredom. One winter not too many ago, my son was whining about there being nothing to do. This was before he had a phone, back when he still wanted to do something other than engage that mind numbing screen. Nothing to do, he’d say.  So I forced him to do something, and we went to the Grand Geneva to ski. He was awful, as was I. But something took and tens of thousands of dollars later, here we are. Skiers.

Those early days at the Grand Geneva were fine, but they weren’t great. The Grand Geneva is a complete resort, perhaps the most complete in the entirety of the Midwest, no matter how the boundary lines are drawn. But the ski hill isn’t much. It’s Wimot Northwest, which isn’t an enviable monicker.  Finding the Grand Geneva to be too small, even for our modest skill set, we were drawn to Alpine Valley. Alpine isn’t much either, but in local context, it’s as good as we can expect, and so that’s where we went. Several years later, that’s our hill, and while it doesn’t compare to any ski experience out west it is still a hill and the snow is still white and the skis still slide.

There are those among us who won’t stoop to the level of skiing our small Midwestern hills. Breck or bust, say the annoying people. But these are the sorts of people who might as well never swim in a pool ever again, assuming they’ve once floated in pastel caribbean waters. These are the sorts who won’t eat a sloppy joe, made with Open Pit and relish, because they’ve eaten at Alinea. These are the sorts that won’t ride in a Ford because they’ll only ride in a Porsche. Yes, the mountains offer better skiing. But can you drive to a Vail on a Saturday morning, ski for a bit, and return to your lake house for lunch and the afternoon football game? In this, we are the kings, and the west seethes with jealousy at our easy proximity.

Skiing makes the winter more meaningful, and I can confidently tell you this because it has changed the way I view winter. Winter is no longer to be abided as if we are long suffering prisoners, held against our will and in a place we dislike. Winter can be this way, and is this way for many. I find this to be a terrible shame. Winter isn’t for existing, winter is for thriving, and skiing, no matter if the hill is only 400′ tall and the cafeteria is maddeningly cash only, is an activity worth pursuing. It’s one of the things that makes your Lake Geneva house worth visiting in all seasons. You can’t ski in the city. But you can spend the weekend at your lake house and toss in a bit of skiing to help make the weekend that much better.  If you’re going to ski this winter, ski here, ski Alpine Valley, and don’t forget my advice: If you’re skiing on the weekend, get there in time for first chair. The midday skiing on a Saturday will make you long for the solitude of a boat cruise on Geneva Lake. At 2 pm on the Fourth of July.

Lake Geneva Concerts

Lake Geneva Concerts

Last month, I went with my wife and two friends to see Zac Brown. The act is called The Zac Brown Band, but that would have been similar to Elvis Presley calling his act The Elvis Presley Band. We know it’s just about the star, sorry Commodores. We went to see the show at Alpine Valley on an intolerably hot evening, the sort of sultry evening we’ve grown accustomed to during this hot and sunny summer. I was not initially interested in going to this concert, and only brought it up in conversation as a way to brag about the incredible hotel demand during summer months around Lake Geneva.  But go I did, and on that evening when we filed into our seats at Alpine I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Having lived all 38 of my years within 5 miles of Williams Bay I had never been to Alpine for a concert, ever.

When the show began it was obvious this was to be like few other shows. The sound was perfect. The stage close, the singer in tune and his band on point. The venue was beautiful, the evening sky casting pastels, the crowd up beat but not too boisterous.  When the show was over there was order as thousands of revelers made their way through the constricted thoroughfares and into their cars. The exit line was smooth, well orchestrated, and within 30 minutes of the last note dying out we had dropped our friends off at their lake house and headed home. It was an accidental concert for me, but one that I thoroughly and utterly enjoyed. Alpine Valley was all class, and as someone who prides himself of not being impressed by much, I was impressed. Alpine Valley the music venue had won a supporter for life.

Last night, on an evening that managed to be hotter and more humid than the Zac Brown evening in June, my wife and I picked up two friends and drove to another concert. Instead of turning north towards East Troy, we turned south towards Twin Lakes.  Eric Church was playing at Country Thunder, and we had tickets.  Just as I had never been to a concert at Alpine Valley, I had never attended Country Thunder. I had long heard of it, and marveled at the caliber of acts that the venue was able to attract, but I had never even considered going. Last night, as the sun faded and the lightening lit up the southern sky, we drove into the parking lot and nothing seemed amiss. The parking was orderly, and we were able to walk in a path that dodged the muddy ruts that were left after the Saturday rain.

Upon entering, it was obvious that at age 38 I was nearly the oldest person there. Sure, there were some other old people like me, but for ever person over the age of 35 there were 500 people under the age of 25. This was a scene that I had only seen in movies, and as I waded through it to buy some waters, I was pleased to find that I was the only person in the water line. The first encounter with spontaneous puking would not occur until later, as we stood nearish the stage and waited for Eric Church to play.

I was wearing shorts and a shirt. This shouldn’t be a big detail to mention, but I was one of few wearing a shirt. My wife wore a shirt and shorts, which made her one of the few women to be wearing a shirt. We were shirted adults in a sea of shirtless youth. When Eric Church strummed his first chord, it was exciting, but not really. The sound was terrible, not loud enough for a concert, not clear enough to hear the skill.  The mass of humanity that gyrated and vomited around us didn’t seem to notice that the songs had started, and they carried on whooping and hollering and vomiting and dancing and trying, desperately, to remain upright. Some people sat on the ground, the ground that on day four of this concert had been defiled by all sorts of horrible things. Girls sat in it as though they had no choice.

After some time, the show ended. We sat in the car for nearly an hour as the parking lot slowly shuffled towards the exit. I valiantly fought off a panic attack, as traffic is far from being my thing.  My three hundred dollars would have been better spent if I bought lottery tickets with the money, but we decided that at the end of the night there was some value in this evening. I will, from this time forward and for the remainder of my life, never go to Country Thunder again. Further, and more importantly, my children, and their children, will never go to Country Thunder as long as they live. Am I a square? Absolutely.  Do I ever want to stand next to someone while they spontaneously vomit? Don’t be silly.