This is the first time I've been to a ski resort in ski season, and not skied.
We're here in Squaw Valley, the snow's excellent, and I'm fit. Or at least, I'm not prevented from skiing by injury, ill health or bone idleness. It's just that the ladies are more interested in swanning around shopping, tubing, sightseeing or just wallowing away at the spa.
I'm here with Mrs. Page and her sister, both fairweather sports followers of the fairest hue, and her sister's husband, who is at the ski school. I'm no longer the die-hard piste-basher who will go up the mountain on his own. I'm more of a social skier, and with no-one to ski with, it's hardly social.
So what do I do? Get up there with the dogs. This is our first time dog-sledding, and while I don't see us schlepping our way up to Tahoe every weekend just to spend an hour in the cold looking at 12 dog's asses, it was great fun.
Once you realize the dogs love running while hauling a heavy sled carrying a driver and two passengers (I'd use the proper word for a dog-sled driver if I knew what it was, but I don't), you can relax and let them yap and slather their way up and across the mountain.
Despite looking and acting like 12 bloodthirsty killers, the Alaskan Huskies were very friendly, if not actually cuddly. I was under no illusions that if the sled got turned over it wouldn't be too long before the dogs worked out we were a potential source of protein, so there was always that to keep us upright and breathing.
Woof, woof.
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