Fond memories of gentle slopes and silent snowfalls

I woke up yesterday morning around 11. I was buried underneath my thick flannel comforter and my pillow was warm from where I had been sleeping soundly. I peeked my head out from underneath the sanctuary and immediately knew that it was colder than normal in the dorm. Through a small slit in the curtains I could see the barren trees beyond the parking lot, and the intramural fields beyond. And as I stared closer, I saw one tiny delicate snowflake drift lazily past the windowpane. I could faintly hear the whistling of the wind blowing past my sixth floor window and realized that this was the first snow of the year. I stayed in bed for a few more minutes, rolling around underneath my fortress of blanket, realizing that the only thing this Monday held for me was a calculus exam.

And in that fleeting moment of solitude, I thought to myself has it really been two years already? Two seasons since I've dared to brave the elements and challenge the slopes? I know, I know...the back surgery. But still, skiing at Perfect North Slopes was one of the best winter memories and also some of the best moments I had during high school...

We waited anxiously for the announcements all the way back in October for it finally to get cold enough to go skiing. Every year it seemed to take longer in the season, but eventually, the call would be made: "All students in the Ski Club be ready to take the bus to Perfect North Slopes next week for the first ski trip of the year." What a day that was, all in itself.

Every Monday afternoon I'd pack my books into my locker, selecting one to "study" from, fully well knowing that I never would even open it. I'd hop on the bus and make the 40 minute trek out Lawrenceburg with the rest of the rowdy Ski Club from Glen Este (and later Amelia). I usually passed the time on the bus with a game of Euchre or talking with Jason Collett, arriving around 4pm. As soon as the bus stopped I'd sprint not to the lodge, but to the ticket booth to beat the crowd (a tactic patented by Jason and me). After that I'd head back inside and grab a quick bite to eat at the cafe (I can still smell the piney smell of the lodge and the pizza and hot chocolate I always ordered) so we wouldn't have to stop later.

Like a scene out of a movie, it took 15 minutes for us to get suited up for the skiing expedition. By now it was almost 5, and we wouldn't be coming back in for four hours. I had long johns, ski pants, a hoodie, goggles, a scarf, my wool hat that itched like hell, my thermal socks, and my gloves (usually spent 25 cents to use the glove warmers...such a guilty pleasure). Every week it was a contest to see who still had their lift ticket on their outer coat. We'd waddle outside, downstairs to the rental shop, no shoes. Jason always beat me getting the shoes and skis because, let's face it- not many people rent size 13 shoes or need poles for a 6'4" frame.

Once outside it was always a challenge to see who could adjust to life on skis first. Like going to the roller-rink after a year, or wearing bowling shoes, it's a mental shift, but soon we were racing to the rope-tug by furiously pumping our arms with the poles we usually ditched later. It wasn't more than a few degrees slope, but we had no initial momentum. We finally made it to the rope-tug and more than once lost a glove or bit the dust right there on the bunny slope. Past the rope-tug we zoomed down the powerdery white artificial snow to the far right chair lift because that took us to "The Far Side", which was of course the longest and least regulated run at Perfect North.

How many times we must've run down The Far Side. At least a hundred, over the seasons. We'd occasionally switch it up with "Backstage" or if we were really ambitious, "Clyde's Super Slide", but it was ultimately more fun to race down the Far Side as fast as we could, the cold wind bringing tears to my eyes as I hunkered down to race past my friends to be the first to the bottom. Or we'd purposely take as long as we could, to prolong the inevitable chairlift back to the top. Try as we might, even the Far Side had to end. Sometimes we'd even stop and lay on the side, and watch silently as the multicolored skiers, some novices, some grizzled veterans slid effortlessly by. Laughing at the accidents, we knew full well that we'd had our share of spectacular spills ourselves. We even spent a significant portion of time collecting miscellaneous items deposited on the trail (for which I awarded arbitrary points), and made a contest over the most collected abandoned ski poles. We'd drop them from the chair lift at the Grizzly Bear statue when we thought the Ski Patrol wasn't watching.

Life wasn't always so grand at Perfect North. Inevitably, Patrick got us to try the side trails on the fringes of the runs. The side trails aren't for the faint of heart, no, they're full of ice patches and rogue grass patches (skis do NOT ski on grass, period) and occasionally a tree. You have to be one slick skier to handle the side trails, and more often than not they got the best of me. Or there was the time Will tried to make the ramp, but was cut off. I'm surprised he only got the wind knocked out of him, but the Ski Patrol was not happy about that one.

I made a goal the first time to make it down a double-black-diamond run by the end of the first season. Peer pressure prevailed, I'm afraid, at such a young age, and by the fourth ski trip I found myself staring down a vertical (slightly steeped) cliff (slope) with rampant (occasional) mountains (moguls) and threatening trees with razor-sharp icicles hanging from them (some nasty trees on the side). But I made it, somehow, slowly and cautiously, and wore the Double Black Diamond Badge of Courage (stupidity?) with pride.

One time Patrick and I somehow managed to miss the "SKI RUN CLOSED: SNOW MAKING" sign as we raced down Backstage. It seemed slightly odd that nobody else was on the slope, but we were in too much of a hurry to care much. It wasn't until we hit the blinding snowstorm of freezing half-consolidated snow that we realized something was amiss. With one pair of goggles between us we crashed and felt our way through the icy blizzard to the bottom. I've never seen a better look on the lift attendant's face when he saw us emerge from the run. We learned our lesson that time- we got another pair of goggles and did it two more times!

One time I did threaten my chance of fathering children after a particularly gruesome high-speed accident. It was the first ski of the second season, and I'd made the mistake of assuming the Far Side hadn't changed. Oh, but it had, ever-so-slightly. I was racing down the slope, a smug grin hidden beneath my scarf at how slow Jason was skiing and how long I'd have to wait for him at the bottom. Crouched low, I leaned into the last big right banked turn...and to my horror found myself barreling as fast as I could straight into a patch of small jumps made by some snowboarders. I hit the first before I could react, and sailed clear over the second. I'm pretty sure my skis just barely made the third before it all went to hell. I'd built up enough speed to make any sort of maneuvering or stop a futile gesture, so I winced and waited for the worst.

I landed squarely on my left ski, but the right hit at such an angle as to exceed the maximum tolerance for tension. I quickly lost balance as the right ski popped off and flew in between my legs. I plowed into the snow feet-first and slammed my head into what felt like a patch of ice. Still going top speed, I slid probably 30 feet down the slope, narrowly missing other skiers only by virtue of their ability...I was beyond control, a simple puppet of the twisted physics of the fall. I finally slowed to a stop some distance down the hill, my right ski in my crotch, the left ski long gone, somewhere back up the hill. One of my poles was stuck right in the ground at the site of the first hill, and I could barely see it way up the hill. The second was stuck in a tree a little further down the slope. Between it all was a horrifying trail of snow that I had plowed with my body indicating the exact angles and locations I had struck the ground. Nearly blinded by the pain, I simply laid on the ground until the crunching of footsteps in snow altered me to the presence of my personal Ski Patrol, Jason Collett. Nearly doubled over with laughter, he recalled the whole incident from his point of view while I lay crying on the snow, making sure to point out that I was "racing" while he was "checking out the course".

With Jason's help, I limped down the rest of the slope to the lodge...I was done for the night. Eventually the swelling went down enough so that I could go to school the next day. In true male fashion, I politely declined the help of any of the real Ski Patrol when they saw me. We later christened that jump "Big Bertha", because every time I tell the story it gets bigger and meaner. I reckon it's gone now, but I'll never forget that run down the Far Side.

Every night around 8:45, the cold tired skiers of the Ski Club made their way off their last run (yes, the ski lifts do lock up sometime, and yes, we were almost late a few times) down to the lodge for the teachers to take roll. We'd pile on the bus, too tired to care about whose wet skis were dripping on whose bookbags. It was too dark to study, and most everybody was too tired to even cause any problems, so I'd just pull up a Jason and fall asleep. Eventually somebody would pour ice on my face or scream in my ear and I'd know that we'd made it back to school safe and sound.

By now it was around 10:30, and we all had homework to do, but we all couldn't wait for the next Monday.