Three Memorables from Canada, Vol. I: Skiing Incidents

1) Day one, my very first time skiing, and I'm like a domesticated lion thrown into the wild jungle: no clue what to do, in way over my head, only a violent death seems inevitable. The Kooter, my expert skier friend, leads me to the ski lift. Our little cabin brings us higher and higher up the mountain, and I know the only way back to civilization is down. Without any knowledge as to how I'm supposed to move with these two boards clamped onto my feet, I'm hoping for a relatively flat path and some careful instructions from The Kooter. Instead, I'm given a constant slope and this helpful tidbit: "It's just like ice skating."

I can hear the impending sounds of doom for two reasons. One, I've only been ice skating once, and I still have marks on my feet from the pain. Two, if my problem with ice skating is understanding how to stop, how am I going to halt myself going down a mountain? I quickly find the solution to that question... fall. I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down. I get up, I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down.

Don't lean back? Ok.

I find my skis, I reattach them, I try to turn, I go fast, I tell myself not to lean back, I lean back, I fall down.

Two and a half hours later, I reached the bottom of the mountain, out of breath, more snow on my head than feet, wondering how big the black and blue on my right butt cheek was growing, and on my way to pay a professional to teach me how to ski.

2) Day three, my most successful day as a skier. Ben and I begin the morning with some warm-up flat green paths on our way to some detouring blue slopes. My body had accepted what my brain had told it long before, to not lean back, and I was able slice through the wind, cut through the snow, leave ice shavings flying in my trail, and finish a run without snow on my head. Skiing is infinitely more exhilerating when you can actually do it.

I may have been flying through my best day of skiing, but before the morning ends I execute the fall of the trip. Ben convinces me to turn into a blue path, a piece of mountain slightly steeper and bumpier than my novice trails. I won't lose control (leaning back is not even an issue, anymore), I tell myself. It's easy to tell yourself that when you're strolling at a slow enough pace to hear every instruction from your head. My body is flowing through the steeper slopes at too fast a pace to rationalize through each turn. I must rely on athleticism and instinct. I cut, I turn, I tuck in. Then the series of sharp turns is on the horizon, and I must react quickly. Turn right! Turn left! Turn sharply right! Turn really sharply left!

And I did exactly that. I controlled myself through the turns and completed a sharp left... right into a mini hill that doubled as my ski ramp. My body somehow is four feet in the air, I'm almost performing a toe touch, and then my body hits the ground. Ski flies off and chills in the snow. My body contorts on its side and proceeds to slide down the mountain, but not before momentum causes me to tumble through semi-cartwheels. My face scrapes the snow enough to bring me to a stop. I can hear groups of Whoas and Are you okays behind me. One lady fifteen feet above has my ski. I thank her, snap it onto my boot, wipe the snow off my head, and thank God that no one had a camera.

3) Day four, the day they close the mountain. As my group steps off the lift, we know skiing is not on the immediate agenda. Centimeter after centimeter of uncompacted snow powder accumulates, 70 kph winds shooting stinging ice shavings toward our faces. Jocelyn recommends that we move for cover and relax at the nearby cafeteria. I follow her into the warm lodge, remove my gloves and mask, and sit at a long table with my group. Some of us eat, some of us complain. Me, I'm chatting to Jocelyn about music again. After twenty minutes an official approaches us with his news. They have closed the lifts, and skiing will not happend today. Well...

The official informs us of our options to get down the mountain. We can wait for the snowmobiles to transport groups of us down, or we can attempt to ski it. The girls immediately get situated to wait for an escort. Asvin, my only male counterpart, is conflicted. A conference in Orlando is causing him to leave Whistler a day early, and this is to be his final day of skiing. We can see through the window thick layers of snow and violently shaking flag poles, but Asvin wants one last ride down the slopes. It's too dangerous to go alone, he says. He'll only go if someone joins him.

All the girls shake their heads no and have worrysome looks on their faces. Jocelyn, our den mother of sorts, reemphasizes the averse conditions he'll face. No one will accompany him, except for a cocky American who wants another taste of the slopes after his recent successful adventure. Asvin and I strap on our gloves, say bye to the concerned girls--- who are anticipating our death report in the news--- and leave to face the blizzard ahead.

We decide to take the long, winding trails around the mountain, figuring we would have the most maneuvering ability on less-inclined paths. Asvin follows me down the mountain and toward the winding detour. Our skis are flowing through the thick snow smoothly, and we're anticipating and fun journey through Whistler Mountain. The savage beast that is Mother Nature thought differently, as the snow was accumulating more and more in powder form, not compacting with the ground. Suddenly, the ground escapes me, and I plunge waist deep in snow. I am brought to a screeching halt and tumble over, now practically entrenched in a cold white tomb. I force myself upright in enough time to watch Asvin experience the same fate, only when he gathers himself, he discovers one ski missing.

Asvin and I shovel like hound dogs through the snow in a desperate search for his ski. Somewhere in those centimeters of snow lay this ski, but he is too deeply cemented in the bitter white floor to be found. Asvin stands with one ski and four miles of skiing ahead of him. We admit defeat and decide for an attempted hike back to the cafeteria, which must be a half mile up the mountain. So Asvin and I stomp through the snow, which has piled almost to our rib cages. Each step up the mountain is harder than the last. The wind gains momentum, building a wall against our chests and slinging shards of ice flakes into our faces. My face loses all feeling except for that burning tingle of flesh being shaved off by the viscous, frigid air. My knees quiver into uncontrollable spasm every so often. Decades later, we arrive to flat land on our way to the cafeteria. Our group has since been escorted to the base of the mountain. Asvin and I embrace the insulation of our indoor shelter, thankful to regain feeling and rid of the brutal force outside.

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What happened next will be found later in the series.