On one of the final days of the Team Muehe New England Trip of Summer 2022, Coty decided that we should take the girls to nearby Gunstock Mountain Resort. The “adventure” day pass included unlimited access to the ski lift, rope climbing, and the mountain coaster. [For those that don’t know, lots of ski resorts convert to something similar so that they can remain open during the summer months]. Zip-lining was understandably extra; no biggie because it was only the girls that were going. I was promised: “there’s a gift shop *and* a bar”. Count me in! What could possibly go wrong?
We bought our tickets online and scheduled zip-lining for the girls. We packed sunscreen and water (no snacks…again!) and headed out to make our reservation on time. Upon arrival, Coty announced that he had chosen *that* very day to conquer his fear of heights. Fortunately, for Coty, and not-so-fortunately for me, the zipline tour group that the girls were registered in had two open spots. Yay.
Backstory: I grew up in a house with a Dad that owned single engine planes. We flew. A lot. I learned to ride roller coasters at a young age. Height has never been an issue for me. Coty grew up in a house with a (step)Dad that was into boating. They owned multiple boats over the years so he spent a ton of time on the water. Enter 1999: girl with no fear of heights that gets sea sick easily marries boy with fear of heights and sea legs. Opposites attract, right? #orsomething
Anyways, back in New Hampshire, the girls are clearly excited by the news and suggest that all *four* of us go zip-lining. Whatever. I’m not afraid of heights. Or speed. Take my money. Let’s go. I mean, how bad can it be?
My first hint of issue was the sign that read “closed toe shoes required”. I saw them turn away a little boy in a pair of Crocs. Really? At that point, I should’ve turned to run but, not to worry, I stayed, y’all. After all, someone has to capture the video. #ishouldvewornsandals
While we awaited our turn on the zip-line, we rode the mountain coaster. A few times. It was unlimited so why not? It’s a slow ride up the tracks to the top of the hill in single-rider car. It requires zero effort on your part. Once at the peak, there is a lazy bastard sitting in a plastic lawn chair reminding you to keep your seat-belt securely fastened and to keep all hands, arms, legs, and closed-toe shoes inside the cart. Got it. Not a problem, sir. As I scooted away, I thought to myself, “that’s my kinda job; just needs more colorful language”.
Getting down the track is much quicker than ascending it: push forward on the handle bars to release the brake while making fun of the morons that scream all the way to the bottom. #ninnies
Finally, it was our turn for the zip-line tour. We were escorted into what I can only describe as a old, retired horse barn sans stalls – open sides, tin roof, dirty floors, and a smell that attracted flies. I was confused to see 12 harnesses paired with 12 “backpacks” on the floor. Wait. What? Y’all don’t carry this shit around for us? What is it I’m paying you for?
Upon instruction, each one of us reluctantly stepped in behind our own individual pile-o-gear. The nazi leader that was touring with our group told us to step inside the legs straps and pull the belt to our waist. I looked around the room while everyone slithered into their first stage of adult trappings. To my dismay, I discovered that I was too – ahem – pleasantly plump to fit into my belt as currently adjusted. For fuck’s sake. A true fat-girl’s nightmare right there in the making. I glanced quickly but didn’t spot anyone taking a video. I panicked and tried to adjust the belts. Turns out, that shit isn’t designed like the standard issue, easy-to-use lap belts provided on all commercial flights. I refused to break a nail so stood and waited for Hitler’s granddaughter to call me out. She did. I caught myself just before the words, “look you skinny bitch; your day awaits you” slipped out of my mouth. Everyone watched as I struggled to loosen my straps to get the belt up to my waist. I longed for a rock to crawl under but had no luck finding one large enough.
Once the belt was up and adjusted (had to loosen the belt to get it over the hips that survived fertility treatment and later birthed two children and then tighten again once at my vodka tonic drinking waist), it was time to get the shoulder straps into place. When I tell you that these torture devices were *not* designed for women that wear anything larger than an A cup, I am not exaggerating. Coty was so kind as to help me with my shoulder straps and tightened them until I lost all circulation to my chest area. I think he was trying to stop me from complaining. Or, perhaps, he was aiming to cutoff my ability to inhale air into my lungs? Please, my darling husband. Do me a favor!
The next step was to collect the black backpack of doom from the dirty ass floor and fling it into place. Now, I know you’re thinking that its “place” was in the bed of the trailer that would be pulled behind the bus that carried us up the mountain. Clearly, I thought the same and sadly, I was mistaken. I heard the guide utter some shit about picking up those bags and getting them onto our backs and I thought I must be on ‘Candid Camera’. Nope. She made a declaration about the weight of the bags – claiming they *only* weighed 28 pounds. Y’all, these bags were full of everything zipline including trolleys, carabiners, handlebars and the ¾” cable used to string the new line our group was apparently installing – at least, that’s how it felt. Twenty-eight pounds, y’all?? I call BS! Coty and I looked like two well prepared Eagle Scouts headed out for a weekend in the wilderness. The girls were unphased and marched forward like the former percussionists they were.
Once we were all in line, she announced, “be careful to *not* drop your gear at any time as the trolleys inside are easily dislocated and broken”. Easily broken? This shit had best be top quality “made in the USA” steel gear capable of carrying me down this damn mountain and safely back to my ugly-ass rental car! All the good little soldiers fell into line with their bags on their backs – ready to go. My decrepit old ass couldn’t bend with the belt in place and attempted a not-so-graceful squat to pick it up. I convinced myself that the worst part was done.
In my true fashion, I was last to leave the barn and served as the caboose in the line. We trekked across a big-ass field to meet up as a group for training. A polite young man told us that we could leave our gear where we were standing as it wouldn’t be needed for the next portion. Music to my ears – get this damn thing off of me!
One by one, we took turns learning how to connect our carabiners to the line, correct hand placement on the handlebars, timing, increasing/decreasing speed, and “braking” – which was not to be confused with “breaking”. Little man motioned for us to gather our gear and proceed to the next area “just up the hill” for the final round of training.
If you read my blog entry about the one and only time I ever skiied, you may be familiar with the conveyor belt that I first learned of while at the ski resort in Taos, NM. Well, since this place is a ski resort in the winter months, they had a similar conveyor belt. Only one problem, it was *not* running. We were expected to take our 38 lbs-o-gear and get to the top of the hill. The girls literally *ran* up the hill with Coty and left me to die – err – catch up. I leaned into the motionless conveyor belt and begged my feet not to “fail me now”. This is where I die. And, as a gasped my last breath, I heard my darling daughters say, “way to go, Karen”; I had made it to the top of the hill. Again, I convinced myself that the worst part was done.
It took nearly 10 minutes for me to catch my breath. I witnessed a couple of former marines time each other while running up the conveyor belt with their bags hoisted high above their heads. What the actual fuck? Since I didn’t have the breath to say the words I could only think, “showoffs; your day awaits you, too”.
One by one, again, we did the first of four lines. This one was short and mostly flat. Meaning, we didn’t gain too much speed and there wasn’t much drop; each of us were given an opportunity to see what we were in for. We were “up the hill” by this point, so I may survive after all.
From the platform, we were instructed to go down “this set of steps, around the corner, and up the spiral staircase”. I’m sorry, what? A spiral staircase? In the mountains? To prove it could be done, the light blue painted spiral staircase stood, in fact, just around the corner. The distance between the center pole and the handrail was barely wide enough for my 48 lb backpack of tricks and childbearing (later childrearing) hips to fit through. I counted the steps as I climbed them and reminded myself that the worst part was done. When I reached the forty-mother-fucking-second step, I heard Mallory say, “Oh, I love this song” and realized that I, in fact, was not in Hell but on another platform ready to approach the next zipline. I was thankful that I would, at least, die while a song she liked played on the radio. Enter teenage boy supervising the out-of-shape, uncoordinated, elderly tourists (maybe just me?) hook their carabiner onto the line and wait until the person in front of them had arrived at the receiving platform, unhooked, gotten down, and safe. Here’s the easy part: jump. Coty and I, once again, racing to the next platform. Most people would glide along and admire the views. I spent my trip wondering if there were more stairs in my future.
Like a recording, we were instructed to, once again, go down “this set of steps, around the corner, and up the spiral staircase”. Fuck me. Another spiral staircase. Who knew I would die in New Hampshire? I counted the steps again as I climbed. I reached the forty-mother-fucking-second step and looked in my direct line of sight hoping to see my darling daughters only to discover that I was not yet at the platform and still had another ten steps to go. By the time I reached the top, I was delirious. Looking back, I think Coty and the girls were there but I was too manic to care. I planned a tombstone that would read: “here lies Karen with the 58 lb backpack of doom that bled her dry, left her breathless, and plummeting to her death in the lovely Gunstock Mountains of New Hampshire. Call today to book your own experience then direct yourself to www.teammuehe.com to give feedback”.
For the final “zip”, I didn’t wait for the all clear or for Coty. I think I was mentally and physically done. I was never so thankful to see a parking lot full of cheap rental cars, “oh, hey – there’s our filthy ride” as I glided above it. We arrived at the final platform only to discover a church group of young teens. I reminded myself to keep my language “clean”. I unclipped from the line and proceeded down the final steps of this dreadful excursion. “Get this fucking thing off of me” were the words I accidentally said aloud as a dropped the 68 lb body bag onto the ground. Not a single kid stopped in their tracks or looked my way. If anything, I recognized glances of pity that I had given the elderly as a young teen bitch myself.
Once the four of us were reunited, the girls made a HUGE production over Coty facing his fear of heights. And, I’m over there: “I nearly died. Like four times. Carrying a 78 lb gawd-awful accessory pack. Did anyone notice? Do y’all even fucking care?” I mean, my plan for the day was to ride the mountain coaster and to shop in the gift store. Like the loser I am, I walked alone to the resort bar.
I knew I would need to document this day via a blog entry but also knew I needed time to mentally recover first. It only took 3 months, y’all. As I sipped my first vodka tonic for that day, I read the following on the resort brochure:
“Get your adrenaline pumping on our high-flying Zipline Tour! Soar above the trees from peak to peak, and peak to base, traveling over a combined 1.6 miles on one of the longest zipline tours in the Continental United States. This 1.5+ hour adventure is for thrill seekers and nature lovers alike. You can even control your speed and reach up to 70mph”!
Thrill seeker? Nature lover?! Y’all. No. Just no. #imnotforeveryoneyall