Podcast Episode
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| California 1988 |
In my twenties, I attempted downhill skiing on a number of occasions. I was never particularly good at it, but I went along with the crowd and tried to do my best. The Hubs and I, along with some of our closest compadres went on several skiing adventures over the years.
We skied Banff, Jasper and Lake Louise in Alberta, Whistler Mount in British Columbia and Boreal Mountain in California. The year we went to Whistler, we took the train to Vancouver which was really cool.
Some of those mountain runs were a bit out of my comfort zone. The Hubs is a natural athlete and never had to many problems on the advanced trails. I, on the other hand, was scared on those runs. I had to claw my way down the side along the trees a few times when I took a wrong turn and ended up on a black level run.
We rented equipment, so on one particular trip to Lake Louise we secured skis, boots and poles and headed out with our friends to enjoy a beautiful day on the slopes. After spending the morning exploring the runs, we stopped at a mountain top chalet for lunch.
I placed my rented skis in one the appointed racks near the chalet and went for lunch. I carefully noted the number on the skis, so I would be able to find them amongst the hundreds of pairs lined up in the racks when I returned.
When we were finished lunch, it was time to hit the slopes again. Everyone located their skis and suited up. Everyone that is, except me. My skis were nowhere to be found. I searched the racks looking for the number I had memorized but to no avail, they were gone.
I had to get down that mountain somehow and I had noticed ski patrol workers on snowmobiles throughout the day. I reported my situation to a patrol member, and they radioed for a ride to come and get me off the mountain. I assumed that someone would come and pick me up with a snowmobile and give me a ride down. Boy was I mistaken.
A young woman on skis came ripping up to me towing a wire, metal, body basket, sleigh contraption and tersely said: “get in”. My heart sank as I realized no snowmobile was coming to get me.
I laid down in the basket on my stomach. There were straps to hold you in the basket, but my driver didn't offer to fasten them or give me time to do it myself. There was a short piece of chain at the top where the basket was attached to the long pole handles that went on either side of her. Off we went with me laying in the basket, going head first, unsecured, down the mountain, towed by a girl smaller than me.
Our speed picked up as we proceeded down the mountain. She cut across the slopes trying to keep our speed down and maintain control of the basket. I was hanging on to that chain for dear life. The snow from her skis was spraying into my face. When she made one particularly quick turn I flew out of the basket and went sliding down the mountain on my back, head first, unable to stop myself because my ski suit was so slippery. Other skiers were trying to dodge me, so they didn't get picked off. I finally came to a halt in some deep snow and my chauffeur pulled up alongside me and I jumped back in my basket.
We finally made it to the bottom. I crawled out of the basket and stumbled to my feet, melting snow running down my face. I ventured over to the rental shop to let them know that my equipment had been stolen assuming I would be facing a rather large bill.
As I was standing in line at the rental shop waiting to face the music, my eyes focused in on the pair of skis the lady in front of me was holding. She had my skis, that was my number. I questioned her and she just shrugged her shoulders and said: “I couldn't find mine, so I just took these”. I stood there too exhausted and flabbergasted to say anything. Luckily, I had the receipt with the number on it as proof, so I wasn't charged extra.
I am not sure where all my compadres were during my near-death experience. Enjoying the mountain sunshine, I suppose.
I think the Hubs eventually caught up to me at the rental shop. Even with all his athletic splendor he hadn't been able to keep up to the basket coming down the mountain. He was relieved though that his bride was safe.
Although the mountain view was spectacular when I was sliding upside down over those moguls, like a sheet of paper in a windstorm, it isn't an experience I would care to repeat.
What would you have done in this situation? Would you have gotten into the basket? What would you have said to the lady at the rental shop when you discovered she was the culprit?
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