How I Spent My Winter Vacation

A Story by chickey

A humorous description of a inept person's attempt at becoming a skier.

February 20, 2014

How I Spent my Winter Vacation

With goggles fogged up, it became difficult pick out the huge mounds of snow, or moguls looming ahead as I whizzed down the ski slope totally out of control, managing somehow to miss them until approaching one, head on, at which point I became airborne, unintentionally. After a few seconds of weightlessness, gravity snatched me back to earth. My chest landed first, followed immediately by the rest of my body, and then skis, one of which smacked the back of my head. With snow stuck between my eyeballs and goggles, a swatch of orange plastic snow fence plastered across my chest, and one of my shin bones pointing ahead instead of straight down, I was not having any fun.

They strapped me into a fiberglass sled-like cocoon. A young man, uphill from the sled, gripped an attached metal handle, and controlled the speed and direction of our descent by side slipping: digging his skis into the snow. The trail was very narrow, hardly room between the wall of stone on one side and the precipice on the other. Craning to look up and back at him, the fir trees began to fly past almost in a blur. An uncomfortable conclusion suddenly struck me; if he let go of that handle, I would careen down the narrow trail totally out of control, eventually miss a turn, shoot off the trail and be airborne for a few thousand feet into whatever lay below. It took him a while to understand my screams. Perhaps he interpreted them as squeals of delight emanating from a child enjoying the ride. He stopped smiling after it became obvious that no child would be capable of using that kind of language. He slowed, we skidded over to the edge of the trail, on the deep, yawning precipice side. Being strapped in mercifully prevented raising my head for peek over the edge.

He hesitated at my suggestion about turning the sled around and skiing ahead of it instead of behind; warning that my feet, pointing uphill, would cause a blood rush to my head. I explained that I was happy to have my blood rush anywhere as long as it stayed within my body. On the way down, it was comforting to look up and ahead, and watch him control the sled, moving it much slower now, probably realizing that if he let go of that handle, the sled and I, out weighing him, would catch up and turn him into hill kill. We reached the bottom where he transferred me to fracture clinic. When I entered, I thought I was in Lourdes.

That event happened a long time ago; I should be over it by now, according to my wife. But the matter cropped up when I was given short notice to use up five days accrued vacation time before the end of February. Although our bank account was still recovering from the stiff checking received before Christmas, we decided that it could still manage a vacation with the help of a small, harmless overdraft.

The logical place to go was south. But, there was not enough time. As we leafed through the travel brochures, She came up with what she thought was a terrific idea: a ski vacation. A ski vacation? I remembered the snow bank I had entered rather ungracefully, and that white plaster, and the itching that could not be scratched. My pained expression did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm: it’s only a few hours’ drive to the ski area, it will be fun, and, besides: I should be over that by now. That was easy for her to say. After pointing out the benefits of being in the great outdoors, and the low cost, she made our decision. I was not enthused, or amused

After pawning off our kids on a few hesitant friends and relatives, we enjoyed a drive without a screaming playpen in the back of the wagon, and without the others fighting, or listening to every word passing between us.

The lodge was just as the brochures promised: in an alpine motif. I told the guy at the front desk that we wanted “the works” Staring at me as if I had just fallen off the turnip truck, he asked, “Are you aware that this plan includes ski lessons?”

“Whatever“ was my bold reply. My wife took over the checking -n procedure. As the young man carried our ten year old sport-store-special-sale ski equipment, he tried to conceal the curiosity crossing his face, like; from which museum had we had stolen them.

Ellen examined the bathroom with her usual eye for amoebae, zygotes and other nasties. It passed inspection

We unloaded the rest of the stuff in our room. The beds looked okay, but not to worry; I knew that after the first day of skiing, even a wood pile feels comfortable.

We were quite impressed with the evening meal. I hoped that it wasn’t a come-on. I heard that some of the lodges put on a big spread to get you signed up, and then serve leftovers for the rest of the week, so my wife’s uncle Henry told me. We returned to our room tired and well fed. Anticipating what might be in store for me on the next morning, I slept fitfully. Ellen snored.

The morning sun reflecting off the snow made us squint while adjusting our goggles. The hairline crack around my skull was bothersome; I shouldn’t have had that last gin and tonic. After snapping on the skis, we headed for the chairlift. Last night it seemed to be located just next to the lodge. Now, it seemed to be a mile away as about forty of us trudged toward it, breaking out into a sweat, with leg muscles throbbing. It was a cold ride up the lift; felt like the seat on my chair had been stored overnight in a freezer. Assembled at the top, we were told to ski down, one by one, to the instructors who were standing a ways down the slope to assess our skills. It was my turn. With all eyes staring at me, I pushed off, trying to remember the pointers given to us in that one ski lesson about ten years ago. My speed of recall varied inversely with the rate of acceleration. I careened downhill, passed the ski instructors who yelled, “Stop!” That was easy for them to say. Assisted over to one side, I was assigned to a group that had also faired badly on the way down. All were finally divided into groups according to ability: advanced, intermediate, beginners which included mywife, and finally, us, early wipeouts. We were herded to the side of the slope, and told that an instructor would join us shortly. They were probably up there, in the warming hut, drawing straws: the loser would get us.

We waited; thirteen shivering bodies: five males, five females, and three whose bulky clothes and ski masks made an accurate assessment of their sex totally impossible. We began complaining about being abandoned, left helpless on the side of a mountain while the wind blew little eddies of snow in our faces. Finally, we spied a red ski suit as it slid away from the warming hut up the slope. It snaked gracefully down, carving huge arcs as it approached. A tall, athletic body swooped down, sent a blast of snow in our direction, finally skidded to a halt, and stood tall in front of us, for all to admire; an Adonis on skis wearing a hat and huge sun glasses that covered most of his upper face.

After a few minutes of absorbing our awe, he addressed us, “Good morning, class. I am Petah, your instructor for ziss week. How are you on this beautiful morning?”

We all shuffled, and groaned through our chattering teeth to let him know that we were still alive. He smiled, displaying a huge set of perfect teeth. He leaned forward on his ski poles, keeping his body rigid, leaning as his muscles bulged under the red ski sweater, and asked, “Can you do this?”. I watched him, sucked in my potbelly, and threw back my shoulders, leaned forward on my poles. The others did the same. “Zehr gut.”, he remarked with a smile.

His little prepared speech told us how delighted he was to have such a wonderful class with so much learning to be done. After a few little jokes delivered through that smile displaying that perfect set of teeth, he got down to business. We stood there looking very grim until he suddenly pointed his ski poles at us, and yelled gleefully, “Smile. We here for fun, He displayed the teeth. The guy next to me grumbled, “Are we in a toothpaste commercial, or what? Let’s move, before I freeze my buns off.”

Peter promised us that we would learn how to ski under control in a few days. I detected the omission of the words, “or else.”

“And, now, for the warmer uppers.”

He jumped up and down, bounced around doing some outlandish exercises: hopping up onto tips of his skis, and then lurched forward gripping his hands on the ski poles. He moved around on his poles and ski tips, with his rear arched high in the air, like a giant tarantula dancing in the snow. Surely, he was not going to ask us to do that. If he did, I would get the trophy for being the first dropout. As I watched him, visions of my pillow danced in my head. Maybe, it would be better if I just slid down the slope with the group, and when they turned to join the line up for the chairlift, I would keep going, straight back to bed and let that crack in my head heal. However, being somewhat of a sport, I decided to stick around just for this morning.

Peter showed us how to snow plow. Although not yet elevated to the status of an Olympic event, snow plowing does allow a slow, controlled descent to the bottom of the slope, without mishap, which for me would have earned gold.

Peter pushed off and started down, skidded to a halt, and then looked up at us, about fifty yards away. The beckoned us to follow. We obeyed. The reaction of gravity on fiberglass and snow propelled me noiselessly on skis spread apart as far as my legs would allow, and then some. Suddenly one ski hit a log, or a gas pipe, or the aerial of buried car, or something. Everything appeared white until I pulled myself out of the bank and removed snow stuck between my eyeballs and goggles. The scenery came into focus: a string of bodies lay above and below me, all laughing and groaning at the same time. Some, like me, took a little longer to get up.

On the way back up, my chairlift companion was one of those three unidentifiable people. It was a girl, identified by her voice. She said that our instructor was sweet, cute and muscley. I was not impressed. At the top of the hill, Peter assembled us off to one side, out of the way of real skiers. He gave us a crash course in anatomy, pointing to the muscles used in skiing. He pointed to the muscle just above his knee and to the one behind and below it. They rippled and bulged under spandex. He had it all: built like an Adonis, young, free, available, etc. etc.

We spent the rest of the morning pulling ourselves out of holes dug by our careening, unresponsive bodies. If we had been hired to plow up the beginners’ slope, we could not have done a better job of it. My determination waned with each wipe out. But, there were a few runs in which I made it all the way down the bunny slope, a euphemism for the easy hill, without incident. Peter was watching, and gave me a thumbs-up each time.

It became time for the gondola ride. We all agreed it made us feel good, like when we were kids in school, and the teacher praised us for doing something right, for a change, and then gave us another challenge. Up and onward!

Now, there is a saying or Rule of Skiing: you should not take that last run down if your knees are wobbly. That is when many injuries occur. When the knees become wobbly; common sense dictates that you should not try another run. But, my knees weren’t exactly wobbly; more like jiggly. One more good run would be encouragement to get back on the slopes after lunch. That Wobbly Rule is very rigid, and allows no exceptions. With my knees just jiggly, off I went. Lying in a snow bank a few minutes later, slowly turning into a popsicle, my mind turned things over: thoughts of my wife, with her talk of fresh air and physical activities. Guess who was going to have the say about our next vacation.? By asking for a few extra vacation days, I could have been down south, jogging on the beach, lying in the sum, watching teeny boppers playing volley ball. Peter interrupted my reverie as he chided, “You did not bend zee knees! That almost did it: if I could have stood up, I would have bent his nose. There I was, all tangled up in this fence, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to ask me if I was injured. He was climbing higher on my list.

Mercifully, the morning lessons ended without further damage. As we stood at the bottom of the slope, ready to disband, Peter gave us another talk, interspersed with little jokes. He instructed us to enjoy the afternoon of skiing, and to meet him the next morning, same time, same place, for another day of great skiing.

Sitting on the tray in front of me, my lunch looked and smelled delicious. I was ready to tuck in to it, but waited. She appeared, looking great in her ski outfit free of rips and pieces of orange plastic snow fence. As she described the gorgeous ski instructors, how they were all so well built and so on, the thought occurred to me that they must mass produce them in a ski instructor factory; they all looked the same. She had enjoyed the morning thoroughly, and was looking forward to getting out after lunch and practicing what she had learned that morning. Thoughts of doing what I had been doing all morning put me off my lunch.

The instructors made their appearances at the entrance to the dining room, and were soon tugged and nudged around to various tables by their fans, the women students. My wife pointed out her instructor, and then asked what mine looked like. I replied that he was the one with the mirrored glasses and big, white teeth, etc. A quick around the room gave no clue to his identity. I even checked the leg muscles of a few, but didn’t recognize any. Then, I recognized the long sideburns. I must admit he was rather handsome, except for that mole high on his forehead.

During that afternoon, I spent a few hours on my own; snowplowing down the bunny hill, gave it up at three o’clock, and then hobbled into the lounge. Early dropouts were sitting around the fireplace, some reading, others chatting. A plaster cylinder caught my eye. It was resting horizontally on a cushioned stool. There was a leg in it. He had my sympathy. Memories stirred, followed by an ominous thought: was this an omen directed at me, a sort of dramatic foreshattering?

I checked out the bulletin board. A note in feminine writing: gin partner required. That was it! I would spend the next day with Ms. or Mrs. or Miss, playing cards in room 302, recuperating from the stiffness in my bones Then, the thought occurred that she might turn out to be a dowager with the gout, would bore me with pictures of her grandchildren, or her dog, or worse, would recall her confinements in mental institutions, and finally exasperate me with stories about her three ex-husbands, one of whom was a closet transvestite. I scratched the idea of playing gin in room 302. Besides, I didn’t know anything about gin, playing it, that is.

We enjoyed a delicious supper in a romantic setting: a table for two by the fireplace. At least, that’s what my wife told me the next day. Actually, I was so tired that I almost fainted into my meal. Sitting there after dinner, I heard music coming from somewhere. Someone asked me to dance. I think it was my wife. Then, I remember lying spread-eagled on a raft, spinning round and round until it was finally sucked into a vortex.

The next morning was beautiful, the beginning of another glorious day of skiing. At least, that’s what she thought. I didn’t notice the weather, or anything else; just trying to guess how fast the truck was going when it hit me. The lesson in anatomy that Peter taught us on the slopes came to mind. I became intimately acquainted with every muscle, every nerve and every joint that strains, twitches or articulates when you ski, because every one of them was now screaming in pain. I told her in a timorous, halting voice that she had better just go to breakfast without me. I wouldn’t want her to be late for ski school. I would be there in a while. She didn’t believe me. As far as I was concerned, there was only one cure for me, and that was total isolation, on my back, sleeping for a long time.

“Don’t be silly. You can sleep when we get home.”

“I think my back is broken.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re just fine.”

She eventually won out. Dressed in that bulky ski suit, with my back ramrod straight, wearing my ski boots, I walked stiff-legged along the hallway, People stared as I clomped along, with my wife walking ahead, turning occasionally to coax me onward like she was tugging on an invisible leash, and I was her giant, padded pet being led out for its morning whiz.

Movement lubricated my joints. After a hearty breakfast, I felt a little better, decided to give it go, and hauled myself to class. Up the chair lift and down the slope. After a few times, my body loosened up. As it was crossing the slope and getting ready to try a turn, it happened. Peter yelled, “Bend zee knees!” I bent zee knees, and made flawless turn. He gave me a thumbs up. I tried another, and another, and another, until finally making it all the way down the hill without damage to body, or ego. Exhilaration is what I felt, and couldn’t wait to spread the good news.

At lunch, I gave her a lesson on the basics of skiing, demonstrating how you have to unweight, then put the weight on downhill ski, and so on. She is a good listener. I urged her to hurry up and finish lunch so that we could get back out on the slopes and practice what we had learned that morning. She suggested that I should lie down for a while, and not overdo it.

My enthusiasm for my new skill kept me on the slopes until the Wobbly Legs Rule came into play. I entered the gondola for one last run. A lot of skiers had the same idea; we were crammed in there, shoulder to shoulder with our arms pressed to our sides; so tight that. if I had fainted, I wouldn’t have fallen. The guy next to me was kind of tough looking. My legs were becoming wobbly, going numb. I managed to bend down a bit and began massaging the calf of my right leg. Couldn’t feel a thing; totally numb. I straightened up, said to that guy next to me, “I don’t know if I can make this run.” He stared at me, apparently not too happy about something, and growled, “You’d better be able to run, Mister.” It was then that I realized it was not my leg I had been massaging. Rather than depend on wobbly legs to flee down the slope with a madman in pursuit, I stepped out of the gondola, waited until he had passed by, slipped back in, and rode it down to the base hoping he was not there to greet me. He wasn’t.

Ellen said we had to hurry, and get ready for the instructor’s tea dance. Having never been to a tea dance before, I suggested that she go alone, arguing that the dance was just an excuse for the woman to feel the instructor’s muscles while they were dancing.. At the tea dance we met our classmates, unwrapped. It’s surprising what was hidden under all those clothes.

For the rest of the week my body became responsive, we enjoyed the experience of skiing under control and improving our skills with each run.

The last three days were glorious, the meals sumptuous, and the fireplace romantic; just like it said in the brochure.