Ski Trip, January 1995

One muggy Sunday in January...

"Here's how you ski backwards," said the lanky skier to Mike (not his real name). "It's not hard." And off he went, FFFWWOOOOOSH! "Hey! Whoa!" The man's arms and skis occasionally peeked through a tumbling cloud of snow traveling across and down the hill. Mike turned around scoffing but then promptly flew out of control into a mogul. Jeff (his full name), only his third time down this slope, came barreling toward them from above, his look of concentration changing to consternation to constipation to cold sweat. He slid sideways as if he were beginning to slide into third base, starting at second, and he came to a stop flat on the ground, legs twisted into horrible contortions. The ruined crowd looked up, glazed over with misery, as Stacy evenly glided by. "Hi, guys!" she said and skied away quickly.

This particular day at the slopes had all begun as a tired traveler stared out over a balcony at the start of a dreary afternoon, an overcast sky above his Ontario condominium. The mass of warm, dry Pop Tart crumbs in his mouth shifted slowly, uncomfortably burrowing into every crevice in his dessicated mouth. The thick mass squirmed but held fast in his jaws as it soaked up the last drizzle of sour orange juice from his crusty wine glass. There was no time to worry any more about breakfast. His tongue would have to get used to some company for a while.

After throwing fifty undershirts on one over another, the traveler erratically lumbered through fog, sleet, and mud alone toward the ski slopes, situated on a mountain at the end of a curving gravel road. His weary, exhausted eyes softened as they noticed Amy, about to push off in her skis with serious effort. He put on his ski boots, threw a ski hat in a locker, and glided up to Amy. For the next four hours, this man coaxed, encouraged, prodded, and negotiated with a timid skier. The afternoon nearly ended in tragedy, a death on a long winding hill, not from Amy falling but from nearly fainting of anxiety and then getting hit by a nonchalant flock of skiers shooting by, wearing helmets. After several average falls and one head-over-heals somersault, a real crowd pleaser, Amy had made it to the bottom and was ready to call it a day.

She was very correct, because it was still light out.

One more trek down and up the gravel road, and the man was again seen coaxing another beginner skier down the bunny hill. He narrowly escaped another solicited ski lesson by executing a daring jump from a chair lift in mid transport and then hiding in some trees. There he happened upon Tony (last name omitted), one ski straight in the air, the other over his head, both still attached to a limp body flattened against a prickly pine. As the alarmed man feebly skied away, some sounds came from within the hapless victim's windbreaker. "Dude! That's the fastest I've gone all day! ..."

While watching Tony unfold himself, the skier slid right into an unwitting Stacy and got tangled in her scarf. He then had no choice but to ski with her the rest of the evening.

The awkward joke of an athlete got up in a hurry and spent the next four hours as it got dark skiing with Stacy down a long steep hill over and over. It had a great view near the top, after you'd skied down a little to get out of the cloud that was there lingering. The man didn't fall down too many more times, but when he did, Stacy had no trouble comforting him with a cold spray of snow particles as she passed the disheveled heap of a human being.

And that was how this particular American tourist's last vacation ended.

I probably should tell you the story about how I wiped out skiing the night before and slid down the hill on my back into a cool stream of ice water, from all the melting snow on the hill. It soaked into my clothes so well it even got my stomach all wet. Well not quite. But that was Saturday night. Sunday was the GREAT time, as I had described above. You could probably find a few exaggerations in the story, though. For instance, I only wore a dozen undershirts, not FIFTY, silly! And that's the news from Lake Wobegon.

Hope you had a safe weekend.

Scott


<< Back to the skiing pictures page.