As I hark my mind back along my illustrious snowboarding career, one forgotten trauma after another bobs to the surface, just as a sea wrecked vessel might disgorge a series of bedraggled sailors – one by one they lurch out of the surf and collapse, gasping for air and clinging to the gritty sand.
Savvy readers may question my presence on the slopes in the first place. Or to put it in the words of one of my Doubting Thomas friends: “Snowboarding? You? You?” My formative years had not erred on the Olympic-training side. I quit soccer once and for all, at five years old, on the very first day. I found out the hard way that you get your shins kicked over and over, and what a fool I would be to stick around for more of that. And that, as far as sporty endeavors were concerned, was that.
However, the vicissitudes of fate intervened like a face full of ice water. Some years ago, I found myself residing in Colorado (which is a story for another day). Winter came quickly upon Boulder, and fluffy little snowflakes began to waft over the town. Cheerful friends began to arrive, toting parkas and boot bags. I had never skied, but I approached the topic with confidence. In fact, I said to myself privately, it is an advantage that I have never done it before, because I have no bad habits to break and can begin with freshness and precision. Too bad for all these poor suckers who grew up skiing, no doubt with one ingrained flaw after another, now totally uncorrectable, I chuckled to myself.
Soon I was decanted into a noisy queue full of eager-beaver young mothers shepherding small screeching children towards the Vail Ski School maître’d. Overhead lighting glared. Voices clamored. Chaos and cries permeated the air, as staff sought in futility to decant the teeming multitudes into some semblance of organization. Picture Ellis Island circa 1908 and you have got the gist.
I eyed my skis and poles with dislike – four pieces of equipment to lose, drop, replace, curse, break and forget. And that is not to count the gloves, the hats, the fleeces, the little clip-on tubes of lip balm, the packs of Kleenex, the money clip, the ear muffs, the plastic Baggies, the liners, the miniature hairbrush, the miniature pencil, and the pack of cards in case I get stranded on the mountain. In one graceless movement, I sighed and heaved the substance of the mess from one shoulder to another.
“Oh, sorry,” I gasped, as the skis whacked a feral-eyed lady next to me in the head and she
whirled on me in fury. I shoved the pile back to the original shoulder, dropping a pole, and as I bent for it, the skis went horizontal into jousting position. They playfully jousted their way right into the plush stomach of a man in a green sweater behind me. He swore. I took advantage of my crouched position to hide from disapproving stares as I pretended to fumble for my lost Chapstick. I mentally regrouped, trying to ignore the hostile stares of Mr. Green Sweater and his thuggish young son.
So there I was, in eighteen pounds of winter gear, baking under the hot overhead glare, bowing under the weight of skis, boots, boot bags, poles – veritably crushed under the weight of it all, I felt – trailing a steady stream of ski-shop merchandise in my wake. And then I saw it: a gleaming advertisement poster, in which a handsome young snowboarder sailed down the mountainside in seemingly the gear-free state that nature intended. I stared, mesmerized. I pictured myself whooshing along in bliss with this good-looking man. It was as if a giant light had dawned.
“That’s it!” I cried, shoving my armful of ski gear into the arms of the nearest bedraggled clerk, who staggered backwards under the weight. “I’m going to snowboard instead!”
Mr. Green Sweater muttered under his breath, “Thank God,” but I pretended not to hear. I sailed grandly out the door, straight into the welcoming arms of my new sport.
All this was well and good at the time, of course, but little was I to know that once clasped to her bosom, my new sport tended to feed her lovers hemlock and watch them die a slow, painful death.
Many exhausting hours later – it seemed a lifetime really – I was eking along what is called a “catwalk” – a long, narrow, flat stretch of trail — miles, miles above the village town. There was enough tilt to drift along, but progress was slow, painful, and entirely uncontrolled. A cliff dropped off to my right, so I clung left. I faced a tall wall of snow, twelve feet high or more. We had a bit of a Scylla and Charybdis situation here, but I had picked my poison: wall not cliff. Further and further I drifted to the starboard side, against my will, only to eventually tip face first into the wall of snow, arms flailing.
Frankly, once my initial alarm subsided, I welcomed the embrace. I collapsed into the wall of snow, pressing my hot cheek into its snowy depths. I reposed. I relaxed. I melted ever deeper into the wall of snow, daydreaming of lodges, slippers and roaring fires. Time stood still and so did I. Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, quoth Robert Frost, but I was entirely in sympathy with my wall.
However, I was starting to attract attention, face first in a wall of snow, arms and legs splayed like a silhouette of Wile E. Coyote after he splats to the bottom of a canyon. Furthermore, it was self-evident that the attractions and allure of the snow wall would no doubt subside at nightfall. And the chances of anyone delivering up a restorative Bloody Mary were zero to nil.
Alas, I realized in horror, I was stuck. I had melted into this wall. I began to fight and writhe against my wall, like one would against quicksand. Eventually I persevered, although insodoing I was forced to unclasp the entire embedded snowboard from my feet in order to start afresh on terra firma.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, and it turns out Frost was talking about my snowboard. The moment it was released, it shot out from under me like a bat out of hell, crossed the catwalk, and disappeared neatly off the cliff.
“SHIT!” I screamed, every veneer of civility exiting over the cliff as well. “Shit shit shit shit SHIT!” I lurched across the catwalk in the board’s wake and peered anxiously over the edge.
Unfortunately, it was not gone forever. Unfortunately, it could be reattained with a bit of labor, as the cliff in question dropped off perhaps ten feet before leveling into a bit of woods. Resigned, I plunged bottom first into the abyss and spent the next forty-five minutes hauling myself and board to the surface, clutching various bushes and brambles along the way, only to lose footing on the icy slope time and time again, sliding back to ground zero. Eventually I managed to fling the board over the edge, and some skiers, taking pity on this skeletal figure hanging by two arms off the side of the mini-cliff, hauled me up along with it. I lay gasping for air, covered in bramble scratches. My snowboard sat silently watching me, exuding smug satisfaction.