Desperate to Go Skiing – Part II
The subtitle of this piece should be “A Cultural Education While Driving to an From a Ski Area in the South Getting There and Back.” Why? It was not about the roads or the reliability of my car.
Understand that, as an Air Force Brat, yes, that is the proper term, yours truly spent much of his childhood in places outside the United States such as like St. John, Newfoundland and Wiesbaden, West Germany to name just two.
My introduction to the Deep South came in August 1963 when, along with 220 other dependents we climbed into an Air Force C-124 that took off for McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, a stop in the Azores for gas and 20 hours of flight time away.
For reasons I don’t remember, the plane was diverted to Charleston, SC. Depending on where you were going, each student either got a Greyhound bus ticket to that city or to McGuire. Since I was heading north, mine was to McGuire was given the cheapest way possible, which was in this case, a local bus that stopped in every town.
It was on this ride that I encountered “colored only water fountains, restrooms, restaurants” for the first time. And, one of my best friends was told he couldn’t sit next to me because his skin was the wrong color.
By March 1969, I’d been living on the Red Neck Riviera (what some pundits call the stretch of beach between Fairhope, AL to Panama City, FL) which have bar none, the best beaches in the world. I’d expanded my horizons to places like New Orleans, Mobile, AL and the Civil War battlefield of Vicksburg. Although by then, segregation was a thing of the past, you could still sense and see some of its effects.
Back in those days, credit cards weren’t commonplace and when one traveled, traveler’s checks were widely accepted. My preferred brand was American Express which one could buy at almost every bank. In March 1969, I still had a hundred dollars or so left from my trip from Massachusetts to Pensacola and buying more was another of my Saturday before I left tasks.
Again, this is 1969 and I was a Yankee was driving car with Massachusetts tags in the heart of Dixie. To some locals, being a Yankee was not a good thing even 104 years after the Civil War ended.
FYI, when we moved to Texas, there weren’t many Yankees in the state, even in the Dallas area where I live. When I was asked if I was a Yankee, I would tell them I was a real Yankee, not one a New York or New Jersey one which got looks of consternation.
Let’s motor on. To get to the Interstate 65 which would take me to Birmingham and I-65 to Atlanta, one had to drive north from Pensacola. It’s a simple 100 odd mile run and then I was on the interstate system. I made it to about 30 miles east of Montgomery when my bladder, stomach, and gas tank said it was time to stop.
At a gas station just off the interstate, I was told by the clerk that only traveler’s checks $50 or less were accepted. My rationale for using one was that I would get back cash for wh
What I didn’t expect when I came out of the store was the crowd of folks gawking at my car with the skis in a ski rack. “What’s in the rack?”
Understand, in this part of the country ski racks were rare. “Snow skis.”
That got confused looks. “I use them to ski down a mountain.”
“On the snow?”
A nod from me, “Yup.”
“Ain’t no snow around here.”
You got that right which is why I am headed to the mountains of North Carolina. I smiled, got in my car and drove off. A little over 12 hours after I left Pensacola, I pulled up in front of a motel in Banner Elk, NC. It was cold, and I could see snow!!!
Part 3 coming November 20.
Read Part 1 – click here
- Desperate to Go Skiing – Part II - November 4, 2026
- Desperate to Go Skiing – Part l - October 22, 2026
- Musings from Whistler - March 19, 2026
Leave a Reply
Want to join the discussion?Feel free to contribute!