Catherine Price (8 page)

J
ust kidding. There is no black diamond run at Powderhouse Hill, a miniature ski resort in South Berwick, Maine. With a vertical drop of just 175 feet (that’s 2,100 inches), its three trails range in difficulty from easy to really, really easy, and the hill is so small that it doesn’t even have a lift—instead, an eight-hundred-foot tow rope drags skiers and snowboarders, most of whom are too short to go on amusement park rides, up a grade so gentle that at first glance, it’s hard to tell whether they’re moving up or down. Occasionally neighborhood teenagers build small ski jumps, but anyone looking for Maine’s version of Taos had better keep searching.

If you’re not a thrill-seeker, however, Powderhouse Hill is charming. Run entirely by volunteers, lift tickets go for $5, and $25 earns you a lifetime membership. The small chalet at the bottom of the hill is heated by a wood stove and sells small snacks to offset the cost of running the ski area. The best part: the original engine for the tow rope came courtesy of a jerry-rigged 1938 Ford truck that the founders of the ski slope parked on the top of the hill and modified so that its rear wheel could pull the rope. These days its engine has been replaced by a newer, thirty-seven-horsepower version, but the truck still sits at the top of the hill, chugging away.

P
owderhouse Hill might not be great for thrill-seekers, but conversely, Corbet’s Couloir in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, is a must-miss spot for anyone who would prefer not to meet their doom on skis.

Ranked fourth on
Skiing Magazine
’s 2006 list of “Top 50 Things ALL Skiers Must Do Before They Die,” the couloir sits at the top of Jackson Hole’s Rendezvous Mountain, which has the greatest continuous rise of any ski slope in the United States. If you scoot yourself up to the edge of the couloir, you’ll see a narrow chute lined with jagged rocks, but be careful. The first person to ski Corbet’s was a ski patroller who accidentally fell into it after the cornice he was standing on collapsed.

Skiers who push themselves off the edge deliberately have a ten- to thirty-foot leap of faith (i.e., free fall) onto a fifty-five-degree slope, at which point they have to immediately hit a very hard right turn, lest they “smash into a face of Precambrian rock,” as one Corbet survivor described it. The chute eventually flattens to a mere forty-five-degree angle, but few people even make it to that point; watch videos of Corbet attempts and you’ll acquire a newfound appreciation for the many different ways in which one can wipe out on skis.

These videos also give a vivid example of how easily humans—especially those who are young and male—can be convinced to do stupid things. My favorite begins with a group of college-aged guys standing at the top of the cliff asking one another if he is going to ski it. “Fuck that,” says one. “I kind of want to vomit,” says another. Then someone hurls himself off the edge. His buddies, now convinced that not jumping off the cliff will mean they have no testicles, follow. The next scene is in a hospital.

But despite the toll Corbet’s must take on Jackson Hole’s ski patrol, the mountain itself is making a profit off of those foolish enough to attempt the run. A special Steep and Deep Ski Camp offers elite skiers a chance to spend four days on a guide-assisted program tackling some of Jackson Hole’s most challenging terrain, culminating in a chance to try Corbet’s. Proof of how reckless one must be to ski it: despite having paid nearly a thousand dollars to participate in the program, most Steep and Deep participants decide not to try.

If we expand our stupid-places-to-ski adventure outside the United States, the editors at
Skiing Magazine
have told me there is one clear winner: Bec des Rosses in Vernier, Switzerland. It’s home of a yearly Xtreme Verbier Freeride event that’s considered the most prestigious in the world. Imagine skiing down one of the mountains on an Evian bottle: a 1,650-foot north face, lots of exposed rock, and a slope that gets up to fifty-five degrees (that is, when you’re not in free fall). As professional skier Shroder Baker put it, “It’s a huge cheese-grating monster, with sharp jagged rocks all the way down.”

S
ome visitors to New York enjoy viewing the city skyline from the tranquil deck of the Circle Line Sightseeing cruise ship; others prefer to spend their time in the Big Apple puking over the edge of speedboats. Or at least that’s the only explanation I’ve come up with for the continued popularity of the
Beast
, a motorboat painted to resemble an open-mouthed shark that gives daily “water coaster” rides through New York Harbor. “With over 90 speakers, Captain ‘Mad Dog’ pumps up the crowd with popular music and amusing New York ‘shtick ’throughout the ride,” the
Beast
’s promoters boast. Translation? You will be forced to sing along to “Eye of the Tiger” and perform the YMCA dance as crewmembers pelt you with water balloons and mock you over loudspeakers—all while you’re bouncing across the water at speeds faster than forty-five miles per hour, courtesy of the boat’s two 2,600-horsepower engines. In order to limit its liability, the tour explicitly bars pregnant women from riding on the
Beast
. But regardless of whether or not you are carrying a child, I’d recommend skipping the speedboat and taking the Staten Island Ferry instead. It gives great views of the Statue of Liberty, has ample deck space to perform the 1970s dance sensations of your choosing, and, unlike most things in New York, it’s free.

I
’d actually recommend not seeing
any
of the rest stops along the New Jersey Turnpike, each of which is named for a notable person who was born or lived in the state. The Thomas Edison Starbucks, the James Fenimore Cooper Burger King—call me un-American, but I think there’s something inherently depressing about Walt Whitman being commemorated by a Cinnabon franchise.

Daniel Modell

According to
Looking for America on the New Jersey Turnpike
—which itself might qualify as a
Book Not to Read Before You Die
—several rest stops have reputations that go beyond just convenient places to grab a cup of coffee. The Vince Lombardi area was once known as a hot spot for cruising gay men; anecdotal reports suggest that the Joyce Kilmer service area used to be frequented by prostitutes (they’ve now been supplanted by a Sbarro).

Graced with branches of Popeye’s, Pizza Hut Express, and, in the case of Woodrow Wilson, a Blimpie, what does impress me about these rest stops is their ambition; it’s hard, after all, to build a service area that really captures the essence of Alexander Hamilton. But with a Roy Rogers
and
a Carvel, no one can say they didn’t try.

T
he subject lines for spam are probably the product of some electronic word scrambler, but I like to think that they are the brainchildren of a secret society of perverts. I imagine these men meeting in a subterranean room someplace in the former Soviet Union, flipping through stacks of porn as they toss ideas back and forth about what tagline is most likely to boost illicit Viagra sales.

“Your dick will explode!” shouts a chubby bald man, looking up from his favorite teenage centerfold.

“Too literal. I like ‘Nasty anal fruit salad,’ ” says another, fingers poised above his computer’s sticky keyboard.

“How about ‘Put your horse in my pussy’?” suggests a man at the front of the room. Well respected by his peers, he is known for his use of metaphor, most recently in a campaign titled “Power up your meat cigar.”

“I think we’re going for something more along the lines of ‘Knock down trees with your GIANT COCK,’ ” responds a bespectacled man. “We don’t want to confuse people.”

Before he can elaborate a short man jumps out of the shadows—the resident surrealist. “Hamburgler orgasms!” he shouts. “Ascent tampon! Dong toast!”

After a brief masturbation break, the men debate suggestions ranging from the religious (“I’ve got a twelve-inch rabbi”) to the seasonal (“What’s new in summer? Testicles”). Eventually they settle on a polite inquiry—“I HUMBLY REQUEST FOR YOUR ASS.”

And then, as they prepare for a celebratory dong toast, the leader of the group hits “send.”

Fred Conrad/
New York Times

N
ick Kristof, the two-time Pullitzer Prize–winning columnist for the
New York Times
, gravitates toward subjects most people don’t want to think about. Rape victims in Pakistan, dying mothers in West Africa, slum dwellers in Haiti—if a story says “human tragedy,” Kristof will find it. Through his columns, blog, books, and videos, he encourages people to pay attention to atrocities so awful that they’re tempting to ignore.

This is a great public service, but it doesn’t mean you should allow Kristof to plan your next family vacation. “He’s . . . one of the very few Americans to be at least a two-time visitor to every member of the Axis of Evil,” says his
Times
bio. “During his travels, he has had unpleasant experiences with malaria, mobs and an African airplane crash.” In a column of tips for student travelers, he skips standard advice (“Bring earplugs!”) and heads straight for the nitty-gritty: “If you are held up by bandits with large guns, shake hands respectfully with each of your persecutors,” he writes. “It’s very important to be polite to people who might kill you.”

On the upside, though, Kristof definitely knows how to avoid tourist traps. And he’s not one for crappy souvenirs. Whereas most people blow their vacation budgets on booze and tacky T-shirts, Kristof puts his money toward more worthy causes: he once celebrated a trip to Cambodia by buying two teenagers out of slavery.

NICK KRISTOF

Experiences That Nick Kristof Does Not Think Are Worth Having Before You Die

• Being stuck at a small airport in Xishuangbanna, China, soon after it opened to foreigners. With the entire town watching, the security guard searches my bag, finds my deodorant—and asks what it is. As a fascinated crowd of several hundred people listens attentively, I try to explain that Westerners use this to avoid stinking.

• Sitting trapped in a small UN-chartered plane as it is preparing to crash-land in the Democratic Republic of the Congo in the middle of the civil war. On the bright side, I have my laptop and satellite phone, and am trying to buy life insurance.

• Standing in a no-man’s-land at night in Lebanon as an unidentified militia points guns at us and asks me and my friend our identities. My friend says “Australia,” in a thick Australian accent. The gunman gets excited. He double checks: “You say, ‘Israel’?”

NICK KRISTOF
is a Pulitzer Prize–winning
New York Times
columnist.

T
here are times when a picture really is worth a thousand words. Like this one—a photograph of the Tokyo Summerland Wave Pool taken during the Japanese festival of Obon. Technically Obon is a time to commemorate the dead, but apparently it can also be an invitation to grab your water wings and head to the pool.

Michael Keferl/CScoutJapan.com

According to photographer Michael Keferl, this shot was taken shortly after the wave pool reopened (it had been closed for repair)—and no, it wasn’t Photoshopped. These revelers just take their wave pools seriously. They don’t have time for you and your silly concerns, like how a lifeguard would be able to rescue you from the crush, or what you should do if the guy next to you starts peeing. They just want to know the answer to one question: how can I squeeze my pink inner tube into that pool?

As one commenter put it, the resulting scene combines the “acoustics of a high school gymnasium with the ambiance of being bathed in lukewarm urine.” It also raises that age-old philosophical question: if a small child gets pulled underwater but everyone is having too much fun to notice, did she really drown?