Owwwwwwwww

I got run over by a chairlift yesterday.

I don't know how old I was when I started skiing but it was pretty early. My parents would take us up to Lake Tahoe every season. I took private lessons and was skiing black diamond runs as far back as I can remember. So how the hell did I fall of the chairlift at Terry Peak? A slow chairlift at that?

I admit I wasn't really paying attention. I had realized, a moment earlier, that I hadn't taken the straps of my poles from around my wrist. I was so furiously trying to get my pole situation fixed that I didn't even realize that I was slipping forward into the path of the oncoming chair.

"Molly, where you going?" yelled Ruben.

Well... I slid right into a chair (at a 90 degree angle) that was meant for a couple of men who were, clueless as to what was happening behind them, patiently waiting for their ride up the hill.

So I immediately sat down and tried to get my skis pointed in the right direction so I could slide in between the two of them and save the situation. I thought I was safe until the very tip of my ski caught his boot.

That's when I got sucked under. It was like getting sucked into a rip tide (for those of us who have experienced it, it's scary). I went down... hard. My skis were under, then my calves, then my hips. The man on the lift was trying to grab me and pull me back up but I was done and I didn't want to be drug any further then I already was. I screamed at him to me go. He did.

I fit perfectly under that chair lift. Not one snag on my gear, no scratches, only a small bruise on my leg. I was damn lucky. Had I been larger, taller, or less flexible, I would have been badly injured.

The boys operating the ski lift didn't even stop it until I went down. It was about 15 seconds too late to prevent my ski chair limbo demonstration. They got me up right away and I just hopped on the chair I was originally supposed to take up the mountain. I was laughing most of the ride until Ruben started talking about the metal blade that I just managed to slip under and how every bad accident that he has seen on the mountain (he used to be an instructor) was either getting on or off the lifts.

I admit I was lucky. I have a pretty large bruise on my leg and my hips and back are a little tweaked, but I'm okay. It's mostly my ego that is bruised. I'm going to have to go buy new ski clothes so one can recognize me.

Weathering the cold

The last time I lived in a place where it snowed regularly was in 2000 in New York City. New York snow is not like Midwest snow. This year at Christmas we got over three feet. We managed to shuttle everyone to Christmas dinner in a truck and ambulance with snow plows strapped to the front. Ruben, Lily and I put on our toughest winter snow gear to trek one block through waist deep snow.

Some nights when I get bored of Mafia Wars, Farmville and all the other silly Facebook applications I'm cracked out on, I walk down the city steps and head downtown. This is a small town and there's always going to be some locals hanging out after work. It's also a tourist town, so between the gambling crowd, the snowmobiling groups and skiers you never know how busy (or how much it will resemble a ghost town) Main St. will be on any given day. The #10 ( is the market indicator of Deadwood. If the #10 is busy it's a good night, if not, most of the card dealers, bartenders and cocktail waitresses are yawning and complaining about the lack of tips.

I've walked downtown in temperatures as low as 2 degrees. Once it gets below freezing I'm usually in for the night. The things about living in a geography where there are actually four seasons that I did not expect are that 1) I don't mind the cold and 2) I absolutely adore the snow (not just for skiing). I know that this has been a milder winter than normal but I've gone out when it's 40 degrees with no coat and been just fine.

Winter has always been my favorite season. And not Bay Area winter. I'm talking about my mom spinning out on black ice in Reno winter, a frozen lake and group retreat in Pennsylvania winter and the crisp in the air when it hits 35 degrees in Connecticut winter. Winter is clean and pure and refreshing. Here in The Black Hills it is stunningly breathtaking (even when you have to shovel).

I absolutely adore my walks downtown though I always take a cab home, because, walking home from Downtown means walking UP the city steps.

Home in South Dakota

In March of 2009 when my boss had to lay me off (I'm not sure who it was harder on) I mentioned, off the cuff, that I might go visit my mother in South Dakota.

"Kiss your social life goodbye." he quipped. He couldn't have been more wrong.

When I got to Deadwood my mother and her boyfriend made a bet that I would be bored and leave within six months. They were wrong as well.

All my life I have lived in very large urban areas. New York City and the San Francisco Bay Area. I'm used to fine dining, easy access to anything I want, farmer's markets, Trader Joe's, shopping, delivery, 75 degree weather... you get my meaning.

I don't have any of that here. No mall just a Wallmart. (I know, it's an evil institution but sometimes you need hairdye or electronics.) I can't find veal chops to make butterflied veal stuffed with prosciutto and sage and god help me find a good piece of non-farmed, non-dyed salmon. There is no recycling program.

But for the lack of the amenities that I am used to, I love the Black Hills. I look out the window every morning and whether it is snowing or sunny I can't help but be in awe of the beauty of this place.

This is the life of a city girl living in a town with a population of 1200. Welcome to Deadwood, SD.