I was determined to ski. The guy at the rental shop looked at me as though I was insane. A nice couple stopping by did the same. The woman selling lift tickets took it upon herself to get me very acquainted with the trail map so I'd find my way back. The weather, they said, was horrible.

It had been nearly two years since I last boarded a ski lift. So you can excuse me for forgetting that skiing requires specialized clothing. Namely gloves, goggles and preferably insulated pants. I was wearing jeans, pulling my sleeves down over my hands and didn't even have glasses to protect my eyes from the rain and snow. I was a walking high-altitude helicopter rescue waiting to happen.

"I would truly be skiing alone."
The whole resort was deserted. It's been a horrible winter so far. In the middle of January there are acres of brown slopes waiting for snow... and nearly as much vacant real estate in the hotels and condos. There's nobody here. No one wants to ski crappy slopes in crappy weather... except me. But I was insistent and nobody stopped me. I paid eighteen euros for a half-day ticket and got on the lift. The high speed lifts so popular back home haven't quite made it to this part of Spain yet, so it was a windy, rainy and then snowy ride to the top. There was no one else on the lift and it seemed only ski patrols coming down the mountain. I would truly be skiing alone.

The concerned lady at the lift ticket window had instructed me to get off the lift halfway up the mountain. To my horror I remembered this shortly after passing the mid-station. I was headed to the top and there was no going back.

I got off the lift in a blast of wind and snow. I tried to warm my frozen hands against my stomach and figure out where I'd wound up. I'd yet to figure out the European marking trail marking system and hadn't a clue which way to find the one non-expert run off the top. The snow was picking up, the trails were wet, heavy and strewn with rocks. I was on cheap rental skis and if I fell without gloves my hands would be chewed up in the cruddy snow. I had a feeling I was in trouble. And all of a sudden it was official.

"One of the best disaster stories ever told."
Wafting up from the stereo at a lift station below came the unmistakable bagpipe strains of the theme to Titanic. Celene Dione wasn't far behind with her lilting, haunting performance. Now, Celene is herself a sure harbinger of complete disaster... but she's also singing about one of the best disaster stories ever told. Sudden horror in an idyllic setting. Yep. That's me.

I found a red run, a color you may be familiar with as the color of blood. I think a red is equivalent to what some resorts call a "blue-black" at home (two steps up from a green). I set out down it and immediately realized it really had been nearly two years since I'd skied. The only way I could get down the first pitch from the lift was by side-slipping forward and backward the whole way. I got a little better as it opened up and wound down the hill, but between dodging rocks and piles of wet, heavy snow I was barely hanging on the whole time.

I stopped about every fifty yards... both to stay in control and make sure I wasn't venturing into Warren Miller land. I quickly learned that the Europeans don't use trail signs the way we do. Rather than big signs at trail intersections, there are small numbered markers along the sides of the trails... and many more of them. Not a bad system.

"I was getting back into the carving thing."
About halfway down I realized I couldn't feel my hands. Time for a stop. I toasted them up on my stomach again, to some fairly unpleasant thawing pain. A few people started to pass by at this point and I became far more confident. I was getting back into the carving thing and getting the rental skis under control. It had warmed up a bit and the snow had lessened. I enjoyed the next few hundred yards until the precipitation returned... only this time as rain. Since it was warmer it was water and nearly blinded me. Even slowing way down and squinting didn't help. But I found my way down and was pleased with myself.

I nearly went inside after one run. But I didn't. The wet lift seat soaked completely through my jeans as I got on and headed back to the very top again. I went inside after this, the second run. And that was it. Once you go in on a crappy day, that's it. It's impossible to drag yourself back into the elements once you're toasty and full
of hot chocolate.

But it was a good day. I'd come to ski and I'd done it... for about an hour. I'd skied a day that even the locals weren't willing to venture into. And I'd gotten back on skis for the first time since March 2002.

"Is run as kind of a hostel."
I'm staying tonight at a refugio. I think this is a uniquely European thing. I don't think there's anything like it at home. There are expensive hotels and apartments here, but this is a house just a couple hundred yards from the slopes and is run as kind of a hostel. Probably exactly like a hostel when there's good weather, but now it's mostly families and a couple of what seem to be school groups. It's a bargain at 23 euros a night including dinner and breakfast.

I'm continuing my tendency to cross international borders at the most remote and inconvenient places. Could I have taken the easy France bus from Pamplona? Yes, but I'm already here a kilometer from the French border. So tomorrow I'm backtracking a couple of miles to catch some provenvial bus a couple of hours across the border to come town called Oloron. It's the only French town you can get to from here, but it's in none of the guidebooks and the tourism people here had to call to find out how to get there on the bus. Should be interesting.

"A few words of French left over from high school."
I'm a little anxious about the language thing. I know a few words of French left over from high school, but far far less than what I know of Spanish. And I put off buying an English-French dictionary until it was too late.

I've heard a few times that the only place in the world where you can't get by with English is France. That's usually meant in jest, but there's a bit of truth to it. I know how to ask if there's a vacant room and how much it costs, but beyond that is beyond me. I imagine I'll be asking a lot of "Parlez-vous Espagnol or Anglais?" In fact, I'm not even sure how they pronounce "Espagnol."