Finding Miss Right

Looking for Miss Right

Coffee perking, toaster toasting and three eggs in the skillet -- only thing missing, KZNN, country music from Rolla, Missouri. I hit the on-button and selected number 3. My wife, a fan of classical music, usually has the radio set on number 1 for KBIA from Missouri University in Columbia.

Commercials were on: Don's Toyota, Tucker's Drug Store, Paul's Furniture, Wacker Contracting, etc., etc.

Finally, DJ Austin Kresky came on. "And now we're gonna take a break from our commercials and play a song. Here's the Wildwood Valley Boys........" I didn't hear the title because I had to let the dog out to pee. Back in the kitchen, I started paying attention to the lyrics.

We tasted true love for awhile

Oh how I remember the love in her eyes

And how I remember her smile

Did she turn out to be a good mother and wife

Did she find happiness with her man

Or did she fall victim to the honkytonk life

I wonder what happened to Ann

Yeah, I used to wonder what happened to Ann. Or better said, there was a time when I reminisced a whole lot about Ann and all the fun we had. For a time after we drifted apart and she got married, I went through hell. But all that was before I met my wife. Back then my yearly cycle was to work from spring to late fall and then move to Tahoe for the winter. As a union carpenter doing concrete forming on remote bridge jobs, I had a really decent hourly wage and there was plenty overtime. I wasn't getting rich but with 6 to 8 months-work, I didn't have to wait tables or wax skis to eat during the winter.

Times had changed and my life had changed with it. Married with two daughters, 2 and 4, I was the carpenter superintendent for Philip Kenner Contractors on a 34-mile widening and renovation job on I44 in central Missouri. I would have rather been out west, but the job offer from Kenner had been too good to turn down.

The winter when I met Ann, I had been sharing a house in Tahoe City with a couple ski bums and doing lots of skiing, or more specifically, lots of volunteer ski patrolling, which though unpaid, let me ski without buying a lift ticket and got me a free lunch. I could have gotten work as a professional paid patroller, but then I'd have had to work a regular schedule and not be free for the back-country ski touring whenever conditions suited me.

There are some real first class ski areas in the Tahoe Region - Squaw Valley, Alpine Meadows, Heavenly Valley and of course Twin Peaks to name the biggest -- and a number of second line areas that are far from shabby. Then within striking distance of Tahoe, there's a couple other top line resorts, namely Kirkwood and Sugar Bowl.

Although I mostly worked at Twin Peaks and one of the second line ones, on the occasional Saturday, I'd go over to Soda Springs, which is up near Donner Summit on old Highway 40, mainly for the après ski action in the Soda Springs Lodge. My batting average there wasn't 100% by any means but it was better there than most of the bars around Tahoe. Independent of the chances of getting laid, I always liked the more authentic folks who hung around that lodge.

It was on one of those Saturday nights that I met Ann and her then-boyfriend, Roger. Having common interests, ski touring and climbing, the three of us hit it off right away. It turned out that they were going to be on a Mt. McKinley expedition the coming summer and were intent on doing it without a guide. Ann was working at another lodge in the area while Roger worked in the Bay Area and came up on weekends. We pretty quickly agreed on doing some training trips together -- namely combined ski tour-rock climbs in the High Sierra.

I can't to this day remember much about what Roger looked like except that he was below average height and had a ruddy complexion. Ann made a stronger impression -- tomboy-like mannerisms, around 5-6, brown hair cut in a shag like Jane Fonda in the 70's and no makeup whatsoever. Her work jeans and bulky flannel shirt reinforced the tomboy impression and didn't reveal much about her figure and I couldn't have cared less. For me, she was Roger's girl and that was that. And at that time, I was hooking up with some willing snow bunny every couple weeks anyway. (An unofficial perk of working ski patrol.)

It turned out that the three of us hit it off so well that I didn't get around to finding a willing snow bunny to bed with. Not wanting to drive back to Tahoe with a half dozen beers in my gut, I called in a favor with the Soda Springs patrol leader and got permission to sleep on a cot in the first aid room. I had gotten both Roger's phone number and the number at the place where Ann worked and intended to give one or both a call the next time I wanted to go on a mountain trip. That chance never came up -- at least not the way I'd anticipated.

A few weeks later on a Monday night, I was back at the house in Tahoe City when Ann telephoned. "You said you had some ideas for good training trips. Did you really mean that?" (Californians and California skiers in particular are famous for being bullshitters. For that reason, I often think of Bob Gibson's song 'Celebrated Skier.')

I ski straight down the hill, you know, I never need traverse

I ski every style of skiin' from the Arlberg to reverse

I'm one of the finest skiers in the whole darn universe

Especially when I'm standin' in the bar

"When you wanna go? This coming weekend is good for me, or the next, or whenever."

"Actually, I meant next week, I could be at your place Tuesday afternoon."

"That's good for me. But how about Roger, is he gonna take vacation from work?"

"He don't have enough vacation days and I can't get away from here on weekends. So, it's gotta be during the week and just me. Look, don't worry I can carry my share of the load."

A combined ski tour-rock climb means heavy packs. In addition to the normal stuff -- tent, winter sleeping bags, stove, fuel and food -- there's a 150 foot rope, climbing hardware for ice and rock, ice axe, crampons and a summit pack. And that's not to mention boots and alpine skis with climbing skins and ski crampons. Fifty and sixty pound packs for an overnight trip is pretty much the norm.

Ann was used to guys thinking that she couldn't cut the mustard. I decided to let her think that I trusted her 100%. (Over the years I'd met my share of big talkers, male and female, who couldn't cut the mustard.) So, I lied: "Look Ann, I know you're up to it, what with all the skiing you're getting in." Then I went on: "Just bring your sleeping bag and mat and personal stuff. We'll use my tent, stove and climbing gear and I'll get the food and fuel. Be here next week Tuesday evening after dinner, say around 6 or 7."

"Where we going?"

"Matterhorn Peak -- down by Bridgeport. It's not even three hours from here to Bridgeport. We can car camp just this side of Bridgeport. Have breakfast in Bridgeport."

She hung up after saying bye in one of those sweet appreciative voices that disarm so many men.

Come the next Monday night, I packed and the next day patrolled all day at Alpine. Like we'd planned, she drove up around 7 and we left her old Datsun at my place and took off in my somewhat newer Toyota pickup with camper shell. Some 15 miles north of Bridgeport, I pulled into one of those big graveled lots where road maintenance crews station keep equipment and gravel and stuff. A few minutes later, the sleeping mats were laid out in the bed of the pickup and we were fluffing out our down bags.

Ann seemed to have trouble getting comfy in her sleeping bag, so I told how to make a pillow with her down jacket and stuff bag and roll some clothes to lay under her knees. She answered in a funny voice and then did what I said. It was January and at 7000 feet on the east side of the Sierra, the mercury can go down into single digits. Inside the camper shell, it was a little warmer but with single digit temperatures outside, sleeping doesn't get comfortable until the down bag and mat warm up. At first Ann tossed around in her sleeping bag, like she was trying to get warm. I told her maybe she just ought to put on her long johns and a sweater. Like before, she agreed, though again in a funny tone of voice.

The next morning, we rolled out early, packed up and drove into Bridgeport for a big breakfast at the Sportsman's Café. The only customers were a bunch of men -- local ranchers, businessmen, construction worker types. They all turned to stare. I couldn't figure out why. Couldn't be Ann - no makeup, loose fitting winter mountaineering clothes. Unless these guys weren't getting any at home, she just wasn't one to spur on erotic thoughts. Then it occurred to me, these guys had probably never seen a pair of pants like Ann was wearing, much less a woman wearing what she wore. Her pants were a pair of old brown woolen army field pants that she modified by putting in a zip-through crotch. Only then did it occur to me that the zip-through crotch might be good for something else in besides peeing.

She had noticed the stares too and when we got back in my car after breakfast, she told me. "Those fucking macho goons. I bet none of them has ever stuck his bare ass out in a windy -40° mountainside."

There was no snow up at Twin Lakes where we'd be jumping off, but the road was closed at the first lake anyway, so we had to hoof it carrying skis the first mile and a half. I watched Ann pretty closely for telltale signs of her not being able to cut the mustard. She didn't show any.

Carrying skis isn't all that much fun in any situation and it's a lot less fun when there are 50+ pound packs to carry too. Luckily, the snow started a hundred feet or so above the lakes and we made good time climbing the 3,000 plus feet up to the little lake where the terrain is pretty favorable for camping. After pitching the tent and securing our gear, we put on summit packs and skied up to recon the next day's climb and generally tour around.

After a delicious and hearty dinner of some forgettable freeze-dry menu, it was time to hit the sack. Now we were over 10,000 feet elevation so keeping warm was a somewhat bigger issue than the night before. By the time I had the cook kit cleaned up and put away, Ann was already in her sleeping bag wearing -- she told me -- her long johns, sweater and socks. I was arranging gear on my side of the tent when I heard her shuffling around with the sleeping bags. When I looked around to see what she was doing, she nonchalantly told me that she was looking to see whether the zippers of our bags were compatible. Still not fully comprehending what was what, I went into a discourse on how emergency-back-country treatment for hypothermia is to put the victim in a sleeping bag with a fit person, preferably both persons wearing at the most underwear but preferably both nude -- better to pass heat from one body to the other.

She said something to indicate her enthusiasm for that method of transferring body heat and she said it in a way that sent a signal that I couldn't miss.

Being an honest guy and not one to backstab a friend, and I considered Roger a friend, I asked the big question, "and Roger won't mind?"

"We broke up right after I met you in Soda Springs."

Unfortunately, as I had expected, the zippers were not compatible. However, that didn't dampen her enthusiasm one bit and mine was waking up big time.

She was the one who offered a solution. "We could lay on yours and use mine as a cover."

I knew there'd be air leaks on both sides, but air leaks weren't my concern at the moment. "Look, if this doesn't work out right, promise you'll give me a second chance in a real bed."

"Of course. I just hope you'll still want me afterwards."

Then something practical occurred to me. "Ann, your long johns, they'll need to come off and you're gonna get cold without."

"I'll leave them on. They're compatible with my zip-through-crotch knickers."

Damn, but that girl thought of everything. I was rock hard by the time we got snuggled up together. Exploring up under her sweater, I came upon a treasure that had been camouflaged under bulky work shirts and sweaters. Nice firm handfuls that could content a man for a lot longer than either of us could wait at the moment. Reaching down, there was no doubt that foreplay would be a complete waste of time.

Had it been summer, there would have been a few tents nearby and she would have wanted to muffle her scream when she reached her climax. But it was winter and there wasn't another soul (or devil) within miles, so at the most, the announcement of her orgasm went unheard by anyone except for some hibernating chipmunks.

We would have wanted to stay snuggled together after the second go-round, but as I'd thought, there was too much cold air seeping in along the sides. It was at that point that I resolved that if I were ever elected president, my first executive order would be to require that all sleeping bags have compatible zippers.

Back in my bag alone, I put an extra tee shirt over the big wet spot. I hate to have down filled items laundered because they never fluff up quite as well afterwards. In this case though, I figured the sticky in the wet would have glued so much down together that laundering would do more good than harm. My bag was definitely going to be paying a visit to the laundry.

The next morning was clear and I don't know just how cold -- just damned cold. Breakfast was crackers, cheese, sausage and rapidly cooling hot coffee. It was still dark as we made off on our skis and carrying summit packs.

The north face/ridge of Matterhorn Peak is no big technical challenge -- in the summer it's done free with no protection. But it was winter, and we had heavy mountaineering boots and I didn't want to take a chance on losing a treasure like Ann, so we roped up and put in chocks on every one of the pitches. Snow doesn't lie on steep rock faces, but it does lie on ledges and it lodges in cracks. Clearing off ledges and scraping out cracks took time. It was past noon by the time we summited. We needed our crampons to descend the icy north couloir and it was mid-afternoon before we got back to our skis.

I told Ann the obvious. "It's gonna be damn hard getting back to the car before dark. We might need to camp again tonight."

"And have to do it in my long johns again? No way! Let's go!"

Fortunately, we got down to the lake before complete darkness, but it was pitch dark by the time we had done the on-foot slog to my car. When we got there, I told Ann we'd be having dinner at the J.T. Basque restaurant in Gardnerville, Nevada -- my treat.

Instead of a thank you and gracious acceptance, she had a real feminist come back. "You don't have to buy me dinner just because I let you fuck me."

I fired back with the most macho line I could think of. "Your fucking me has nothing to do with it. I'm always hungry for Basque food and you bashed it out fast enough that we'll make it to Gardnerville on time."

Later that night we got back to Tahoe City. I sent her to the shower while I cleared out my truck and put stuff away. By the time I got out of the shower, a happy Ann was already in bed, covers up to her neck. "Time for your second chance. Looking at the bump in your shorts, it looks like you still want me."

Throwing back the covers, I was treated to the sight of a female body that, at the time, I could only think of as being more perfect than any I'd ever seen. She was flat on her back but her breasts were only slightly flattened -- in other words, her titties were more muscle than fat. An hour-glass figure, rounded hips, proportions perfectly balanced. Between her legs was brown pubic hair in a perfect V, probably trimmed but looking completely natural.

I got that second chance and I don't know how many more. We weren't counting and we didn't decide when to go to sleep, it just happened. I wondered if my two ski bum roommates got any sleep that night.

Up late the next morning, she made me a logger's breakfast and then we drove down towards Emerald Bay and went off on a day ski tour up Rubicon Peak, 9,100 feet elevation and a 2'600 foot climb up from Highway 89. On the way home, we picked up a couple steaks and wine and went back to my place. Ann said she ought to shower first so she could start the meal sooner. I ruled that out. "No way, tonight we shower together." That shower went on and on, I just couldn't get enough of soaping up her beautiful body.

After dinner, we sat around sipping wine and she played her guitar and sang. She'd played and sung when we met at Soda Springs and she was very good. People in the lodge had stood around and applauded after every song. And here I was, getting entertained alone by a beautiful woman like Ann - I felt like the luckiest man in the world. At the time I even thought she might be a future Joan Baez. Afterwards we enjoyed an improved version of the previous night. By then I was really convinced I'd connected with the woman of my dreams. In other words, I had found Miss Right.

When she got her period, I found out how special sex with her really was. Naked on my back, she was masturbating me slowly, trying to make it last as long as humanly possible. Every so often, she'd stop and just look at it in an admiringly sort of way. "You know, I really like looking at a man's penis. They're so interesting. All I got is a slit." Psychologists would say she was afflicted with 'penis envy.' To me she wasn't afflicted, just erotic as hell.

Over the next months we got together regularly - for ski tours and just plain skiing. It was paradise on earth, I had found a woman with nothing but pluses -- she was beautiful, sexy, could sing, play the guitar, cook, climb, ski and didn't put a bunch of cosmetic shit all over her face. I couldn't believe my good fortune to have a girl like Ann -- a real keeper.

Thing was though, I never really communicated to her that for me, she was Miss Right. Maybe that was the reason that when I left Tahoe in April to work on a bridge job in Shasta County, we sort of drifted apart. Only much later did I start to accept that the reason we drifted apart could have been that she didn't see me as Mister Right.

Early on, I had convinced myself that Ann was just a passing fancy as were the ski bimbos that I'd seduced or been seduced by. Then on into the summer, I really got to appreciating how special she was and that didn't work anymore. That's when I really regretted not treating her like Miss Right and telling her so. The big crash came when I got the wedding announcement. Ann had somehow gotten my address and sent the announcement of her and Devin Somebody's marriage.

I was devastated. My whiskey consumption went up exponentially. Luckily Arnold, the foreman on the job and an old friend, was alert and understanding. Really fortunate though was that Arnold had once taken a course in labor relations -- Clinical Psychology 1.04 (Dealing With Substance Abuse in the Workplace). Finally, one day, he sent me home early and said it was time for me to get my shit together. "Come back sober and without a hangover or don't come back."

(Later on, I asked Arnold where he'd taken the psychology course. He gave me a thoughtful look before answering. "Where else? UHK-CCS." Then he smiled and walked away. For weeks I pondered over what university UHK was. University of Hong Kong? Nah, no chance, not Arnold. The closest Arnold had ever gotten to Hong was when the Army sent him to South Korea for 13 months. One day I asked one of the state bridge engineers. Laughing, he replied that UHK-CCS stood for University of Hard Knocks – College of Common Sense.)

After Arnold sent me home, I went back to the trailer I was renting for the season and poured all the booze down the drain, made some coffee and sat outside on the doorstep, sort of fixated on trees and rocks and blue sky. I’d been fixated on Ann but now it was clear, that had to end. Somehow I convinced myself that maybe Ann wasn’t the only woman in the world. What I couldn’t convince myself of was that there really was a Ms. Right out there for me so I resolved that I wasn’t going to fall for any more too-good-to-be-true girls. Of course, that didn’t rule out the occasional bimbo in the sack and I would follow the old 4-F philosophy of male/female relations – find ‘em, feel ‘em, fuck ‘em and forget ‘em. In other words, I had turned myself into a real male chauvinist with misogynist tendencies. It turned out that my misogynist tendencies were, according to a psychologist I talked to on a ski lift, a mild form of Focused Misogyny Syndrome, or FMS for short. In my case, I would take it out on females who I might otherwise consider as potential mates. To clarify, since I had been rejected by or otherwise lost out on a female that I had wanted, my subconscious mind decided that I would be nasty to them right from the beginning and thereby avoid being rejected. It is really weird how the mind can work – or better said, not work.