It was our last day on the mountain.
I didn’t see the hump of snow, otherwise known as a mogul, at the edge of slope. Well, not really. I mean, I knew it was there, but I fully intended to turn in the other direction before reaching it.
Things did not go as intended.
But I’ve gotten ahead in the story. Here’s some background:
I’d spent the week skiing in the Park City area with my son, his wife and her family, and my significant other, all of whom are better skiers than I. No matter. I was out to have a good time and no amount of falling was going to get in the way.
And fall I did.
In fact, the falling was consistent to the point it became a sort of running joke. Consistent to the point that others in the group kept their phones at the ready in order to get a picture of a fall’s aftermath. I fell so regularly that my son’s father-in-law claimed I used it as a form of attention seeking behavior. I denied this, of course, but I can understand how the casual observer might draw the same conclusion.
But, no matter how spectacular the tumble, I suffered no injuries. This despite the results of one stumble ending with me sliding halfway down a hill on my back, head first, holding my skis in the air lest they impede my progress down the hill. Indeed, I started, only half-jokingly, claiming to be Unbreakable, just like Bruce Willis in the movie of the same name.
Did I mention I always wear a helmet?
It occurs to me, at this point in the story, it may appear to the average reader that, when it comes to this particular sport, I have little to no ability. Let me assure you, this is not the case. Not exactly, anyway. I contend I am not a bad skier, but also that my skill set continues to improve.
At least when I’m paying attention.
Bad things happen when I’m not paying attention. Bad things happen when my weight shifts backward instead of forward. Bad things happen when I don’t control my rate of descent. All of these things I know how to do. It’s during the implementation of this knowledge or, rather, lack thereof, when things go haywire.
That’s the back story.
On this day, the last day of skiing before I headed back to Ohio, I was attempting to put into practice some of what I’d learned during a three-hour lesson I’d taken the day before. At first, everything was hunky dory, at least until that damn hump of snow, the one I mentioned four hundred or so words earlier in the story. It was my third trip down this particular hill and, I swear to God, that mogul appeared out of nowhere. I’d missed it my first two times down the hill. Third time is a charm.
My right ski buried itself deep in that hump.
I could see it happening. Indeed, I had the best view of it as I fell, face first, into the packed snow of the slope and, as my face hurtled downward, I could see my ski go from horizontal to vertical, the tip burying itself even further into the snow. That part I’ll never forget. It happened in slow motion, like the world does right before a car crash. It was mesmerizing.
Other details, however, got a little shady. At least at first.
My son, who was skiing in front of me, apparently looked back at one point to see I had fallen. He then waited, according to his proximation, about one minute for me to get up, quite naturally assuming I would get up. Considering how many times I had fallen and gotten up during the week, I consider it a fair assumption. But after at least one full minute of observing my inert body, he assumed I was dead and, quite courageously, removed his skis and hiked up the mountain to where I lay, face down, in the snow.
“You ok?” He queried after helping me up. My skis were still attached.
“I’m fine. I’m Unbreakable, remember?”
We skied a short distance to an area where skiers could take a break and, once stopped, I took the opportunity to clean the snow out of my goggles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He told me later he caught me staring blankly up the mountain. “Do you want to stop by the medical shack and get checked out?”
“I’m fine. Really. Just trying to figure out how I got up here.” I wasn’t kidding.
He paused for a moment. “What day is it?”
That was a stumper. “Umm…Tuesday?” It was Friday, but it would take me three more guesses to get it right.
My son now behind me, we skied the rest of the way down the hill, removed our skis, and hiked to the medical shack, where I was instructed to go directly to the emergency room of the local hospital. This we did and, once checked in, were assigned a room in short order. Then, of course, we waited. And waited. And waited some more.
I hate waiting, but it was worse for my son. At least I was the object of activity. He, on the other hand, got stuck in the room while I was subjected to a CT scan, and then a full MRI because, I was told, they found an anomaly on the CT scan. For my part, I suspect emergency departments are viewed by hospital administrations as consistent profit centers, so I had a healthy suspicion about the necessity of all those tests. However, my son’s in-laws took time out from their day to visit us in the ER, and assured me they supported the tests. Doctors both, I trusted their perspective and submitted to the regimen until, six hours later, finally being told that there was nothing wrong with me. At least nothing that a little food and rest wouldn’t cure.
As quickly as possible, we decamped and drove back to his in-law’s house. There we were served a late dinner of meat loaf and potatoes before retiring to the family room for an hour of Galaga. I got high score.
Lying in bed that night, I thought of the day’s adventure. I thought of how I needed to ski more often and how I felt like the day had been wasted because of me. I attempted to apologize to my son for this, as he had certainly been bored out of his mind. His response? No problem. I would have done the same for him.
Damn right I would.