The Matterhorn
When I was 11 my parents dropped me off at Disneyland with a friend. Roll your eyes if you must when I say it was different back then, but, well—it was different back then. As kids of course we loved it: we weren’t “little kids” any more, whatever that means. By some obscure evaluation we had been found qualified to look after ourselves in an amusement park with thousands of other humans.
We blasted past Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln (who wants to waste a precious 45 minutes waiting in line to watch a robot? Although the lighting and the Gettysburg sound effects were pretty cool.) and made immediately for the Matterhorn to get on when the line was at its shortest. One of the things you’re really good at when you’re 11 is running through crowds of adults and small children moving slowly in a limited area. You chose your path while constantly re-evaluating and making small adjustments. Faster to go around the fat couple from Des Moines using the path that goes toward the castle, and then finally veer right and at the last instant squeeze past the iron railing by Snow White’s Grotto.
As a kid growing up in SoCal, unfortunate relatives who did not live nearby were always visiting, which meant we got to go to Disneyland a lot. We had the park “wired” and knew all of the paths and shortcuts between lands that saved priceless minutes and tickets. Yes, the tickets. In 1968 an “E” ticket cost 65 cents, a significant amount of money when raking and mowing the yard brought in a whopping $2 (and we had a push mower). Disneyland tickets were the legal tender of my youth. The parents would give us enough money to buy a 12-ticket book, and we would plan for days in advance how we would use the limited number of E tickets. There were usually only four in the book, so we brought as many old ones from home as we could find. I had three older siblings who guarded their excess tickets jealously, but there was a drawer in the kitchen that was the official collection point for all the tickets the family acquired from visiting relatives and school district employee nights. Magic Key tickets were especially valuable as they could be used for any ride in the park. In practice, however, one would never use a Magic Key coupon for anything less than a “D”.
There are two “sides” to the Matterhorn and two different tracks. It has long been a topic of some controversy among kids which side is the fastest/scariest/hairiest. At that time we believed the left side of the mountain (the so-called “Fantasyland Track” for you connoisseurs) was the best ride, so we made for the pass between the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland building and the mountain, the monorail right above our heads. We hit the beginning of the line right as two girls our age (whose parents apparently were just as lax as ours) walked up together. They would now be right in front of us for the entire queue, and our minds immediately jumped to what would happen when we got up to the bobsleds.
The Matterhorn was set up for parties of four. There were two seats in each bobsled, one in front and one in back, and each was supposed to accommodate two standard-sized humans. Each seat was several feet long, and you sat tandem style, as the signs overhead and the voice commanded: “Gentlemen step in first and slide to the rear, then Ladies may be seated.” Obviously, if you’re the gentleman this means close physical contact with whoever is sitting in front of you. Typically as kids it was never a big deal—we just sat with our friends and fought out who would be in front before we reached the loader—but this time I could tell things were different. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to have a strange girl in my lap, but the thought of it was exciting. We edged round the mountain, closer and closer to the Tyrollean shack where the queue finally would be in the shade, each pair studiously avoiding taking notice of the other. We entered the shack, surrendered our tickets, read the signs, and watched the bobsleds dispatch, unable to escape the yodeling on the PA. The line ran round and round, and presently we were right there at the loading gate.
The college students running the ride were a proud bunch. They were skilled at moving humans from around the entire globe on and off a roller coaster built in the form of a mountain at light speed. They could tell if people formed one party or were strangers at a glance, and they were always looking for maximum capacity in the bobsleds. A party of three would get a quick disapproving glance as the loader had to send off a bobsled with an empty space. Single riders ended up waiting for an open spot. Parties of two and four were what they wanted.
Round tiles with numbers designated where people would stand to wait for the next bobsled were set into the concrete, and the loader’s word was law. He looked at the four of us, and in an instant read that the two pairs of kids did not know each other, but were just about old enough to be interested in each other. He barked “One!” to me and “Two!” to the first girl, and then assigned three and four to my friend and the other girl. We obediently moved to the appropriate circles.
The two boys got in first and slid to the seat backs as we had been told. We immediately started fumbling with the seatbelts—in 1968 the Matterhorn didn’t have buckles that clicked, they had the sort of ratchet-thing airline seats had, which meant that as the sled moved down the rail to the dispatch point one had to quickly find the loose end of the belt, fish the whole thing through the buckle, and cinch it up. The girls must have gotten in as well at some point for they were now fumbling for their seatbelts. We were all too busy getting situated to even notice we were now in very close contact with the opposite sex. The next instant were looking up at the lead, the dispatcher who checked that everyone was seated and belted and wouldn’t suddenly fly out of the bobsled. He grinned at the four of us and pushed the pedal that dispatched the bobsled.
In First Grade a school eye examination revealed that I was significantly nearsighted. My brother claimed it was from sitting so close to the TV. I think it was the reverse. Whatever the reason, I now had the same glasses Michael Caine used to wear in movies like Alfie and The Ipcress File. Because of my tendency to destroy fragile things, they were hornrims, and at 11 I was just starting to become vain about my appearance. The glasses did not help. They were my only way to see clearly, however, and my parents paid what was then a lot of money for them.
As the bobsled slid down the rail into the dark depths of the mountain I remember thinking that maybe I should take off my glasses and hold them just in case, but as there was nowhere to do so I didn’t. The next thing that happened was the lift hill, and on the Matterhorn there is a significant jolt as the moving chain grabs the bobsled to pull it up the steep incline. At this point gravity took hold, and I found myself for the first time in my life with a lap full of live human female. As I recall I enjoyed it.
At the end of the lift hill we had a brief look down at the entrance to Tomorrowland (this was before they closed the holes at the top) and then after a sharp right turn we were off and running. It was the usual great ride. By 1968 Disney had not yet fully closed off the inside of the mountain, and you could see tracks and bobsleds around you except for one place toward the bottom of the hill that was in darkness. The bobsled pointed its nose downward, we gained speed, and I anticipated a sharp turn. Unfortunately she did not. When the turn came her head snapped sideways into mine, and my glasses went spinning in to the darkness (after smacking the side of my nose a blow).
Seconds later the ride was over. We all got out of the bobsled. I don’t remember if we had words with the girls or not, but we never saw them again despite all our efforts run into them on a dark ride like Pirates. I told one of the ski pants-equipped ride attendants about my glasses, and he directed me to Disneyland Lost and Found on Main Street. I filled out a form, and amazingly enough about three days later a package arrived in the mail. My glasses.
I have liked girls ever since.
We blasted past Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln (who wants to waste a precious 45 minutes waiting in line to watch a robot? Although the lighting and the Gettysburg sound effects were pretty cool.) and made immediately for the Matterhorn to get on when the line was at its shortest. One of the things you’re really good at when you’re 11 is running through crowds of adults and small children moving slowly in a limited area. You chose your path while constantly re-evaluating and making small adjustments. Faster to go around the fat couple from Des Moines using the path that goes toward the castle, and then finally veer right and at the last instant squeeze past the iron railing by Snow White’s Grotto.
As a kid growing up in SoCal, unfortunate relatives who did not live nearby were always visiting, which meant we got to go to Disneyland a lot. We had the park “wired” and knew all of the paths and shortcuts between lands that saved priceless minutes and tickets. Yes, the tickets. In 1968 an “E” ticket cost 65 cents, a significant amount of money when raking and mowing the yard brought in a whopping $2 (and we had a push mower). Disneyland tickets were the legal tender of my youth. The parents would give us enough money to buy a 12-ticket book, and we would plan for days in advance how we would use the limited number of E tickets. There were usually only four in the book, so we brought as many old ones from home as we could find. I had three older siblings who guarded their excess tickets jealously, but there was a drawer in the kitchen that was the official collection point for all the tickets the family acquired from visiting relatives and school district employee nights. Magic Key tickets were especially valuable as they could be used for any ride in the park. In practice, however, one would never use a Magic Key coupon for anything less than a “D”.
There are two “sides” to the Matterhorn and two different tracks. It has long been a topic of some controversy among kids which side is the fastest/scariest/hairiest. At that time we believed the left side of the mountain (the so-called “Fantasyland Track” for you connoisseurs) was the best ride, so we made for the pass between the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland building and the mountain, the monorail right above our heads. We hit the beginning of the line right as two girls our age (whose parents apparently were just as lax as ours) walked up together. They would now be right in front of us for the entire queue, and our minds immediately jumped to what would happen when we got up to the bobsleds.
The Matterhorn was set up for parties of four. There were two seats in each bobsled, one in front and one in back, and each was supposed to accommodate two standard-sized humans. Each seat was several feet long, and you sat tandem style, as the signs overhead and the voice commanded: “Gentlemen step in first and slide to the rear, then Ladies may be seated.” Obviously, if you’re the gentleman this means close physical contact with whoever is sitting in front of you. Typically as kids it was never a big deal—we just sat with our friends and fought out who would be in front before we reached the loader—but this time I could tell things were different. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to have a strange girl in my lap, but the thought of it was exciting. We edged round the mountain, closer and closer to the Tyrollean shack where the queue finally would be in the shade, each pair studiously avoiding taking notice of the other. We entered the shack, surrendered our tickets, read the signs, and watched the bobsleds dispatch, unable to escape the yodeling on the PA. The line ran round and round, and presently we were right there at the loading gate.
The college students running the ride were a proud bunch. They were skilled at moving humans from around the entire globe on and off a roller coaster built in the form of a mountain at light speed. They could tell if people formed one party or were strangers at a glance, and they were always looking for maximum capacity in the bobsleds. A party of three would get a quick disapproving glance as the loader had to send off a bobsled with an empty space. Single riders ended up waiting for an open spot. Parties of two and four were what they wanted.
Round tiles with numbers designated where people would stand to wait for the next bobsled were set into the concrete, and the loader’s word was law. He looked at the four of us, and in an instant read that the two pairs of kids did not know each other, but were just about old enough to be interested in each other. He barked “One!” to me and “Two!” to the first girl, and then assigned three and four to my friend and the other girl. We obediently moved to the appropriate circles.
The two boys got in first and slid to the seat backs as we had been told. We immediately started fumbling with the seatbelts—in 1968 the Matterhorn didn’t have buckles that clicked, they had the sort of ratchet-thing airline seats had, which meant that as the sled moved down the rail to the dispatch point one had to quickly find the loose end of the belt, fish the whole thing through the buckle, and cinch it up. The girls must have gotten in as well at some point for they were now fumbling for their seatbelts. We were all too busy getting situated to even notice we were now in very close contact with the opposite sex. The next instant were looking up at the lead, the dispatcher who checked that everyone was seated and belted and wouldn’t suddenly fly out of the bobsled. He grinned at the four of us and pushed the pedal that dispatched the bobsled.
In First Grade a school eye examination revealed that I was significantly nearsighted. My brother claimed it was from sitting so close to the TV. I think it was the reverse. Whatever the reason, I now had the same glasses Michael Caine used to wear in movies like Alfie and The Ipcress File. Because of my tendency to destroy fragile things, they were hornrims, and at 11 I was just starting to become vain about my appearance. The glasses did not help. They were my only way to see clearly, however, and my parents paid what was then a lot of money for them.
As the bobsled slid down the rail into the dark depths of the mountain I remember thinking that maybe I should take off my glasses and hold them just in case, but as there was nowhere to do so I didn’t. The next thing that happened was the lift hill, and on the Matterhorn there is a significant jolt as the moving chain grabs the bobsled to pull it up the steep incline. At this point gravity took hold, and I found myself for the first time in my life with a lap full of live human female. As I recall I enjoyed it.
At the end of the lift hill we had a brief look down at the entrance to Tomorrowland (this was before they closed the holes at the top) and then after a sharp right turn we were off and running. It was the usual great ride. By 1968 Disney had not yet fully closed off the inside of the mountain, and you could see tracks and bobsleds around you except for one place toward the bottom of the hill that was in darkness. The bobsled pointed its nose downward, we gained speed, and I anticipated a sharp turn. Unfortunately she did not. When the turn came her head snapped sideways into mine, and my glasses went spinning in to the darkness (after smacking the side of my nose a blow).
Seconds later the ride was over. We all got out of the bobsled. I don’t remember if we had words with the girls or not, but we never saw them again despite all our efforts run into them on a dark ride like Pirates. I told one of the ski pants-equipped ride attendants about my glasses, and he directed me to Disneyland Lost and Found on Main Street. I filled out a form, and amazingly enough about three days later a package arrived in the mail. My glasses.
I have liked girls ever since.
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