Get ready for your virgin run.
Skiers rise to the occasion (www.noblehouse.bb.com).
I was 12 years old and it was winter in Ontario, Canada. My Father had always loved skiing as a youth and as I approached my teenage years, he felt it was time. He wanted me to breathe in the air from the top of a ski hill and carve down the incline like a whittler with his knife. This, however, was not to be my fate.
Flanked by my father, step-mother and some other friends, we got our gear and began the adventure. Getting into my skis proved easy and promising. I figured walking in skis was effortless and going downhill could only be easier. A natural I thought, chest puffing slightly, with sudden ninja-like skills, or so I thought.
I can remember hiking up the hill the first time, only to perch at its edge prepared to go back down. With a quick demo from my Father, I was ready for my virgin run. I slid down the slant with ease, bending slightly and steadying my legs as my guide had taught me. I made it down! Maneuvering like the young grasshopper that I was, I met up with my Father and got in line for the ski lift.
This machine would be my demise. This satan-like contraption had garish T-bar limbs hanging low, swinging idly in perpetual rotation, bodies dropping from it left and right. I furrowed my brow and approached the beast. I was told to sit on the bar, and when we reached the top, simply hop off and scoot over for round two.
Unfortunately, I chose to sit on the inner side of the T-bar so that when I went to leave the rotation, I was faced with the cable box and the wire mesh fence that enclosed it. Being a novice skier, I didn’t think about the length of the skis and the room I would need to allocate to turn them around.
I stood against the fence, searching wildly for assistance from the audience. My Father had gotten off and was franticly trying to tell me how to dislodge myself while holding back the T-bar that was heading straight for me. My Step-Mother was yelling down to the operators to turn off the lift, but to no avail.
My skis were stuck and I was going down. With the momentum of the grinding chains out-powering my Father, the T-bar was ripped from his grip and came at me full-tilt. It broke its tempo only to connect with the left side of my forehead, and then continued back into Satan’s layer, to scope out its next victim.
I took it like any twelve year-old would. I remember stars (mostly green and white) and feeling as light as a bird in motion. A flash of panic ran through me as I registered what had just happened. For sure my head was split in two, I thought. Surgery would be needed, stitches and a future lobotomy to save the rest of me. Touching my head to make sure it was still on my neck, I was shocked to not feel blood. Looking down at my skis, the snow blinded my eyes and the stars took over. I vaguely recall my Father scrambling at my feet and clicking me free. I was laid out on the snow to await the medics.
They arrived with a stretcher and bunch of first-aid stuff. The only thing they used was the flashlight. I remained conscious, and even walked myself down the hill to the first-aid hut, where I was made to lay down again. After an exaggerated amount of flashlight-flashing in my eyes, the medics concluded that I was fine to leave and could not understand why I was still conscious. The egg on my head was big enough for my palm to encompass and my stomach lurched every time I touched it. My Father advised the medics that I was a stubborn child and this incident only proved it.
The rest of that day was spent at home, reading on the couch with a blanket and tea. Much to my Father’s dismay, I haven’t hit the slopes since then and currently have no plans to change that.
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