Beer and Slothing in Las Vegas

We were somewhere around the high rollers on the edge of the craps tables when the hangover began to take hold. Ten people dressed in Salopettes and Ski jackets trying to get the hell out of the MGM Grand Casino. It could've been a scene from Casablanca: What's your story? I came here for the skiing. Skiing? What skiing? We're in the middle of the desert!  I was misinformed.

No matter where you are in a casino you can hear the emesis of the slots - pinging their prizes into the waiting palms of purple-haired pensioners who are pissing away their progeny's inheritance. And it's not just the Vegas magicians who've mastered the art of misdirection - every signpost points you towards a place whose sole purpose is to part you from your money.

I made it outside, my eyes burning from the February sun despite the ersatz prophylactics that were my aviator sunglasses. Though what can you expect for five bucks?  The concierge spotted a big tip and phoned in a limo - five minutes later a 30 foot Lincoln pulled up at the kerb with a Vegas veteran behind the wheel.

His name was Ralph. What you boys do last night? Bled about six grand in Crazy Horse II. Six grand! I could've got all your dicks sucked for three. He tried to lower the tone that bit more by pulling out a glamour shot of his girlfriend. Pretty hot, huh? Used to be a dancer in one of the clubs.  Ralph knew what we needed so pulled into a liquor store.  Moments later and we're on the road to Mount Charleston.  It's about an hour and a half limo ride from the strip to the ski-lifts so there's plenty of time to get rid of last night's hangover.

The snow starts falling when we're still 15 minutes from the resort. On arrival it's apparent that there's no way out of this place so Ralph agrees to wait for us.  Ski hire is cheap and a day pass doesn't even cut into the day's gambling budget.  A thin layer of powder covers the slopes.

For a country where you can't sneeze without being slapped with a law suit the lifts are kinda archaic.  Millar and I had strapped on our planks and waited for the lift to come around, ducking low only for a wooden park bench to rise at the last minute and smack into our backs.  The result was carnage as two idiots tried to haul themselves onto the lift before being thrown to either side and landing face-down in the snow.

We knew better next time and managed to get on the lift, gripping the wooden bench tightly as there was an absence of a safety bar.  Through some Vegas miracle we all made it to the top, where we realised that this was our first mistake.

One of our number had never been skiing, but we found him standing at the top of a US black run, which is really about as blue as Robert Johnson (or Boris Johnson for you limeys).  Still, no one had told him not to get on that lift so he was damn sure he wasn't gonna let us out of his sight.

The first 100 feet down was narrow and fairly steep - I guess that's why that tagged it a black - so he really had no hope.  First turn, fall.  Second turn, fall.  Third turn, fuck it.  Someone skied down to order a skidoo and played Chinese whispers at the bottom.  Who needs the skidoo? Giles... tosser.  Okay.

The rescue squad arrived.  Skidoo for Giles Tosser?  Pronounced with a hard G.  He was taken down and spent the rest of the day on the nursery slope - it's not the largest but then again virgins don't want anything too big.

For the rest of us there were about nine runs down from just two lifts.  Just off the right hand lift is a pretty impressive snow park with plenty of jumps and a couple of rails.  For the skiers there's some good off-pisting through the trees between the lifts where the powder is pretty much untouched by the locals - their insurance won't let them do anything dangerous in Nevada, except shoot guns.  Gotta love the second amendment.

Food was consumed but wasn't memorable - your typical carb-heavy mountain meal from the canteen at the foot of the pistes. Après is kinda limited at Mt. Charleston, unless you've got a limo laden with beer. We jumped in and headed back to town.  Being America, the only things smoking down the mountain were the brakes, and although we offered to cool them down in the way only men can it fortunately wasn't necessary.

Ralph dropped us back at the Grand - split ten ways it cost the same as a cab fare across London.  Hangovers had started to kick in again as we walked through the MGM Casino.  Recidivism was our only recourse.

So now, five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can see Mt. Charleston - and know there's another mountain you've broken, and which has broken you right back.