First of all, I feel need to clarify some terminology. The story I am about to tell you, I've referred to as "Skiing". Please note that anything I did on this particular day in reference to "Skiing", was NOT, by any means or fuzzy definition, anything remotely related to "Skiing". It WAS, however, an out-of-control, no-business-even-being-there, assault to my physical being, on a snow-covered mountain in South-central Pennsylvania. Any similarity to actual "Skiing" is purely coincidental, and should not be construed as downhill skiing, but merely a reaction to extrordinary levels of gravity mixed with an uncommonly reduced coefficient of friction with reference to fiberglass boards strapped to my feet. Please do not attempt to re-enact any incidents contained here-in. All ski activities were conducted by a complete amateur, with no ski background whatsoever. Failure to heed to these dire warnings can and will cause a snow-covered earthen mountain to be held against you. 

It was a beautiful winter day, till we got off the bus at the ski resort. Sobriety had been greatly reduced during the two hour ride, and youthful enthusiasm had over-ridden any semblance of self preservation that may have been warranted. Common sense and a knowledge of common physics should have shakin me to my senses. I knew that the famed physicist, Sir Issac Newton, wrote directly of my intent and it's certain failures, many years before..."mass in motion tends to neither stop nor change direction..." Loosely translated, I should never ski.  It's a law. I should have heeded.

As we donned our equipment, we asked all  the pertinent questions...How the hell do you put these boots on? The curved end of the ski is forward, right? How do you walk, once you have the skis on, in the hallway of the ski resort? Why won't these boots let you stand up straight? (during moments of reduced sobriety, that's a viable question).

So...on to the slopes...

As we coasted down the slight grade to the ski lift, I pondered for an ever-so-slight moment, how I was going to stop from slamming into the rest of the skiiers, standing in line for the lift. My answer came to me amongst the profanity extolled upon me, by the other ski patrons. With me knees now quite wobbly from not being able to straighten my legs due to the insidious confines of those monsters called ski boots, I took my turn in front of the awaiting lift chair, holding myself in place with firmly planted ski poles. Getting on the chair on the first try was rather tricky, and they let me have a second try after I slipped off the front of the seat a mere 7 feet or so off the ground. I made it on the second try, sans my ski poles, when the chair hit them. I had them planted in the ground once again, but they were wrested from my grasp and knocked to the ground. The kind resort employee said he'd send them up with the next victim.

Getting off seemed to be my forte, on the first try. I found it rather easy. getting off when I was supposed to, might play out to be another sad story, especially without ski poles to balance. I jumped off at the top, and surprised myself with a newfound agility, as I landed on my skis and stood straight up. My inexperience soon over-rode my newly acquired agility, as the chair, rose and bashed the back of my skull. Even the simple act of falling straight forward was now challenged by the way my feet were bound to the skis. It seemed to affect every joint, and every muscle as I tried to turn and fall away from my attacker. By the time I got back to my feet, my ski poles had found their way up  the lift with another skiier, and I felt I was ready for whatever was next.

None of the members of my party had ever skiied either, so we were "blind leading the blind", finding our way to a suitable trail. Our impatience to be amongst so many, gleefully gliding down those beautiful white slopes, led us to a wonderful tree-lined vista and the natural curve of the landscape disappeared beyond the crest of the hill, as others glided down before us

This is what skiing is all about...glistening snow, cool crisp air, and terror...the kind of terror that attempts to paralyze control of your bodily functions. As we followed those in front of us, like rats over the edge of a cliff, I glanced at a small sign on the side of the trail. It read something about "Intermediate Level" or something...it went by way to fast. At this point I realized that I was accelerating, and at nearly that same revelation, I also realized that IF I wanted to end this tragedy before it actually happened, it was too late. Everyone in my party had already fallen. Some had ended up in the wooded area along the trail.

There were so many things I needed to know about skiing, but long before I was at this point on the trail...simple things, such as steering, STOPPING, or even slowing down. I just assumed you rode to the bottom. It's what everyone else was doing...right? By now, I'm going fast. I could tell it was fast. My legs were being hammered by bumps in the snow you could barely see. My teeth were hitting together...AND I COULD HEAR IT! The most foreboding instant happened, as I caught up to some more experienced skiiers in front of us. When he shrieked "Oh My GOD!" as I wooshed past, it wasn't because of my style. I was so out of control, I couldn't fall down. You know the feeling. You're drunk and walking down a hill, and as you start going faster, you start running because falling wasn't even possible. My problem was that I was going so damned fast, I feared what the fall was going to be like.

The trail was not straight. It took a long gentle curve. Why the hell would they build it like that!!?? MY trajectory was straight. I had choices to make. Fall or be stopped by a tree. I opted for the fall. OK...I opted for a disastrous crash. Calling it a fall was way too much of an understatement. Had I chosen to simply sit back, I'm certain the explosion of snow and debris would have been far less dramatic...and far less traumatic, for that matter. I chose to fall to the side. In retrospect, I learned alot about why this was a bad choice. First, had I tucked my ski pole behind me, the end of it would have never stabbed me in the sternum. When the tip stuck in the snow, the portion that my hand was inserted in...that same portion that was so easily wrenched from my grasp by the ski lift...blasted the wind from my very existence. I vaulted over the pole, landing solidly on my other shoulder, while the pole in my left hand, pinned my arm behind me, leaving my head and face with no defense against the snow and ice along the edge of the trail. Why were those skis so long? As I vaulted over my ski pole, with my right hand buring up to my wrist in my gut, my left arm pinned behind my back, as I face planted in the snow, the skis were very busy, preventing my lower body from following along. My legs felt like a twist-tie on a loaf of bread...but my legs and knees are not that flexible! Finally, with a violent jerk, the skis fled the scene...one disappeared...the other passed me...but not before giving me a good slap on the chin. The whole scene was violent. The mountain had released it's fury upon my out-of-shape body. I laid there for what seemed like a short eternity, waiting for air to once again enter my lungs. The blow to my solar plexus had rendered me without oxygen and I was convinced it was hours till that next precious snow-filled breath was able to be inhaled.

As I slowly regained my senses, I found myself laying on my back with my head aimed downhill. I rolled to my side and looked up the hill, trying to find my bearings. The edge of the mountain loomed above me and it was laughing at me, or so I thought. The laughter was the small crowd who had witnessed the accident. Someone asked if I was OK...a stupid question! A bus crash releases less forces of nature.

I needed to get up off the ground. The humiliation of the moment needed to end. Damn, these ski boots were heavy, I quipped to myself. They provided little traction as well, as I stood up, and I fell on my back again. OK...ENOUGH!, I thought, and jumped to my feet again. I now need to gather 4 pieces of rented equipment. The poles were nearby, within 50 feet or so, of where I landed. But where were my skis? As I searched the slope, I saw one. Most likely, it was the one that assaulted my chin. It was about 10 paces into a wooded area along the side of the trail where I crashed, The other made it another 100 yds or so down the slope without any of my assistance. I lumbered down the hill, wondering how much farther the resort was, below me. I knew it was down there somewhere. That's where I left it.

God, my legs were tired. The boots simply would not let me stand up straight. My knees could not lock back enough to take the strain off my leg muscles. I had conceived a plan to just walk off the mountain, instead of skiing the rest of the way down. I have no answer as to why I changed my plan. I think about it now, years later, and wonder why, or what I was thinking. I decided that, with my newfound experience in this sport, I could coast to the bottom and be done. What the hell was I thinking!!??

Standing on the snow, on the side of a hill, with one ski on, and the other wanting to continue without me, tended to be tricky. When I tried to push my boot into the hardware on the other ski, the ski under me wanted to move. It was a delicate mountainside ballet, lasting well over 30 minutes. I completed splits and twists that I never intended. There was a bright side though...I had fallen, twisted, and toppled my way down the hill another 100 yards or so. I was getting closer! Finally, mission accomplished and I now had two skis on, two poles in my hands, and once again, I was ready for the increase in gravity that this mountain was readily waiting to supply. I knew what I need to do when I needed to go down. I would sit back on my butt, if I got out of control again. I desperately wanted off this mountain, and out of these tortureous ill-fitting boots. My impatience over rode my common sense, and I scooted myself around and headed down the hill again.

I really don't have an explanation why I thought this part of the disaster-du-jour would be any different. I just wanted to be done, and the mountain was more than willing to take me to the bottom, as fast as I wanted. The forces of gravity soon took over, assisted by the lack of friction on the bottom of my skis, and once again, I'm flyin! And once again, the trail took a bend to the left. This time though, the path to the right was not tree lined. It was just a steeper part of the hill. How is this possible, I thought to myself, as I soared off the side of what felt to me like a cliff. It didn't matter how it was possible, I guess. It was happening, in un-real time, and at break-neck speed (pun intended). I was airborn! The ground had dropped out from beneath me, and I was actually in flight. Not falling, like when I fell off the ski lift earlier, but an actual off-the-groud aerial tragedy.

The human brain is truly amazing. The speed at which thoughts can develop is such a short time is astounding to me. So many thoughts flashed through my head while airborn, and yet, not one of them indicated an error in my choice to go skiing in the first place. A body in flight...no, MY body in flight, is not a graceful sight. Arms are flailing, legs are flailing, and I was screaming...most likely a host of profanities that need not be repeated here.

The earth does not like to give up it's inhabitants. Look at the space program and how difficult it is to get things off the planet. Well, the earth was making it's displeasure to my leaving it, very well known, and at one helluva pace. To exacerbate the issue, the tips of my skis were now hanging straight down, below me. As they caught the ground, it increased gravity exponentially, and accelerated me toward earth as though I was being catapulted out of the sky, toward the ground. I attempted to reach out with my hands, to prevent another face plant similar to my earlier spill. And once again, those ski poles...the devices carried by skiers, to enhance their balance...are now, once again, in a conspiratorial plot to ensure serious injury. As the pole tips hit the ground, instead of my hands bracing me, they pulled my arms out and away, leaving a straight, targeted trail for my face, directly to the snow.

I hit with enough force to simulate seismic activity...face first, nose into the snow. For those of you that ski, you know that a slightly packed surface is excellent skiing conditionings. For face plants, a slightly packed surface is NOT ideal conditions. I had hit the ground hard enough to break the shatterproof lenses in my ski goggles, forcing snow in my eyes, up my nose, and with my face dragging though the packed powder, it was even tearing at my lips! It seemed as though all my weight, and the fury of that mountain was being directed at my face. i couldn't even get my arms in front of me to slow my slide! once again, my body was twisting, rolling my arms up behind me, with my skis consistently able to twist my legs and knees the exact opposite of my upper body. This part of the hill was steep. The fall was not ending, and my slide had now turned into a bouncing tumble. One moment my face was hitting the ground, and the very next, the back of my skull was bashing the ground.

How the hell could these damn ski poles have stayed on my hands?! I rolled over one arm, with the pole underneath me. It dislodged from my hand finally, but not before I bent the pole at about a 75 degree angle. In all honestly, I didn't feel bad for that pole. I had gotten even with it.

The mountain wasn't done with me, and I think it was punishing me for my attempted escape. In retrospect, the whole scene must have looked like the hill was rolling me up like a piece of scrap paper and throwing me away. I came to a stop. I had no ski poles. I had no skis. My goggles were around my throat. My hat was gone. The front of my coat was stuffed full of snow. One of my gloves was missing. My lip was bleeding. My teeth hurt from all that cold snow forced into my mouth. The cut on my chin, from the ski slappin me, earlier, was really stinging because snow had been forced under the skin. My vision was blurred. I blamed that on all the snow that smashed into them when my goggles broke...yea, the ones that were shatterproof. And as I sat there, inventorying my situation, that amazing brain of mine came up with only one thought...I'm still not at the bottom of this damndable mountain!

So now I'm sitting there, pain coming from everywhere, cold setting in, comtemplating my next move, I heard an unmistakeable sound. I knew that noise. I had lived it. Another one of my party has missed the same turn. I turned to watch his whimsical ballet as he too, went into flight, then found the ground. And again, I heard that unmistabeable sound...the "thud" of a body smacking a hardened surface and the muffled groans of his response to that landing. I found it amusing as much as I felt sorry for him. What thehell, I laughed at him anyhow. That chuckle was short lived.

As I sat there laughing at his predicament, it occured to me that there was a nylon-covered, ski and ski pole laden, 185 pound veritable bowling ball bounding straight at me and I don't even know if my legs still work!