Skiing Break-enridge

For those of you with hobbies you’re passionate about, you’ll understand when I say that “skiing is my thang.” I first hit the slopes when I was about 21 and have been swooshing just about annually ever since. And while I do hate to come across snobbish, I will anyway when I say that when I think of skiing, I can only think of the powdery, snowy goodness that falls from western skies. I learned to stand upright and slide down mountains on slick blades in the mountains of North Carolina and must say that’s more akin to ice skiing than snow skiing--difficult to master, a royal pain in the REAR when you fall. Literally.

When my family began taking annual treks to the Rockies to ski, I was quickly hooked on the quality of skiing you can get from 8-13,000 feet peaks and dry air than you can 5,000 feet, wet snowy peaks. And through marriage and the addition of my only child, we’ve put forth diligent effort to save our frequent flier miles and credit card points in order to enjoy ski trips
at least once a winter.

On those trips, there have been as few as three of us to as many as 25 of us together. I modestly say that I’m a fairly proficient skier; I’m no dare devil or downhill racer but I’ll take on any blue run and a few blacks that don’t involve those knee-demolishing moguls. I have helped friends, husband and children alike learn to ski or improve their skills and helped many a fallen skier back to their feet and into their skis from precarious slope angles. Usually while laughing hysterically.

So when my child got into his “traveling with only family is no fun” years and wanted to bring friends along, I wholeheartedly endorsed the idea to make his trips as much fun as ours--regardless of the friend’s skiing ability or lack thereof.

This season, after a few dismal economic years, we were able to piece together enough pennies to take an entire week long trip to Colorado and one of our favorite resorts: Breckenridge. We invited not one but two of Chase’s friends. One was unable to join us but Chase’s friend Peter was given the thumbs up from his parents to attend as his Christmas present.

Peter had been snowboarding once before, two years ago, and had taken three days of lessons before heading out. At the time, he felt like he had a pretty good handle on his boarding abilities. For this trip, we decided that we’d check him out for the first half day or so and determine if
another lesson was in order.

We left Atlanta the day after Christmas, bound for colder weather and snowier ground. Once in Breckenridge, we collected our lift tickets, rented the boys’ equipment and settled into our condo while taking note of the meager snow conditions and copious amounts of ice that were uncommon in years past. As I went on the obligatory grocery run, the boys grabbed their gear and headed out on the run by the condo, eager to test their memory of skills needs to board successfully.

When I returned from the store, the boys were back inside and I noticed Peter moving gingerly. An inquiry why revealed Pete’s first fall on the run resulted in a close encounter with a batch of ice in an area of the body I’ll call his booty: an official medical term. Nothing broken; just
awfully sore but not good considering he was likely to continue landing on said derriere as is often the case for beginning boarders. My warning: try and roll into future falls or aim for one cheek or the other. Whatever you do, don’t put your hands down to catch yourself or your wrists will be the next aching body parts, another common complain among boarders.

Our first full day was windy, cold, icy and lacking of the snow quantity the resort typically boasts. But we enjoyed ourselves nonetheless. Peter’s boarding skills were actually beyond what a beginning lesson would teach so we opted to skip the instruction and let him take it easy on green slopes. The falls were uncomfortable for him, clearly, but he was a trooper who never complained.

The second day, the boys wanted to get out early so we let them go solo for the first couple hours in a designated area only and planned to meet them at the base of a particular chair lift at 11. We never made it there. At 10, my phone rang: “Peter fell on his wrist and we’re in the medical center. The doctor doesn’t think it’s broken; it’s just sore and a little swollen.” Instructions: Ice it, ibuprofen, and he should be fine. Right? Nope. By the next morning, we were back in the medical center getting a cast for this broken wrist. Good news: he could still board since the cast would protect and prevent further damage. I, on the other hand, had taken an ugly fall the afternoon before and reinjured a knee that had suffered similar damage from a similar fall in the past. I was able to ski on it but could definitely feel something wasn’t right. Since we were there, I had my knee examined after Peter’s casting was complete and was told of a likely meniscus injury and given the order not to ski anymore.

Hold on a second. Broken bone = go on back out on the slopes and have fun! A POSSIBLE meniscus strain = sit miserably in the condo for the rest of the week while everyone else around you has a blast?

Now that that’s clear, I knew what I wouldn’t be doing for the rest of the week and that was sitting idle in the condo. Have brace, will ski. I consented to take off the rest of that day and resolved myself to be less daring and fast, and more “don’t hit me, I’m slow and injured” on the slopes but it was better than not skiing at all.

Day four we all returned to the slopes together: John, me, Chase, Peter, his orange cast, and my knee brace. My knee was sore but manageable and I never fell and no one bumped into me thanks to me bellowing “Don’t get so close to me!” at anyone who came within 10 feet. Who wants to get too close to a maniac like that? My feigned lunacy worked to keep a 10 foot protective bubble around me at all times.

Peter continued to hold his own but still fell from time to time thanks to the ice and his relative inexperience. I saw that jarring his casted arm was uncomfortable and by day’s end, I suggested he move to skiing, which would be more likely to keep him upright and off the arm. We determined he would take a ski lesson the next day. However, blustery 126 mph wind gusts derailed our plans. No lifts were open, no electricity in the condo, no internet, not even any cell service. The morning was spent catching up on sleep and the afternoon saved by the return of electricity and the onset of College Football Bowl games.

On our last day, Peter took and enjoyed his ski lesson. At the end of the day, the instructor gave him the thumbs up for green runs. We gave him the option to ski back to our condo along the green run he’d boarded several times earlier in the week or we could take the shuttle bus back. Peter wanted to ski the run—it was the last run of the trip, after all.

We went up the lift and began our journey down—John sent Chase on ahead to board at his own pace since it was the final blast of the trip. John, Peter and I began our much-slower trek down but we weren’t going slower for too long. A short way down, Peter blew past me with considerable speed, announcing as he went by: Whoa! I’m going really fast!

Slow down, slow down, slow down…the words escaped my lips into the cold wind but Peter was unable to obey though I could see he was trying. The ice under his skis was an accelerator regardless of his attempts to snowplow. Halfway across the run, he remembered what I’d said often and I’m sure his instructor reiterated: if you can’t stop, sit down. Bail out. He bailed but not soon enough. Like a baseball player sliding into home base, he sat down but continued his straight arrow shot toward the woods off the side of the run. With jaw-dropping astonishment I watched Peter sail into the air, busting through the ropes that marked the trail’s edge, and--like Wile E Coyote--he seemed to hover for a split second before plummeting out of sight.

The last words of his father before he left on this trip, jokingly: Just don’t run into any trees.

Peter landed against the base of a tree about 12 feet down a 45 degree slope. I beat the record for fastest time clicking out of my skis and flying down the slope to get to him while screaming “Call for help, call for help” to John and anyone else within earshot. Within minutes we were surrounded by Ski Patrol, of which it took about 12 of them to get the never-unconscious Peter onto a back board and up the steep slope to the waiting sled. At the Breckenridge medical center that we were now all too familiar with, he was loaded into an ambulance. I jumped in the passenger seat and we headed for the next town over and extensive checking for internal bleeding or other injuries. John had raced down the run after an unknowing Chase and agreed to meet us there.

After ultrasounds and CT scans, it was discovered that Peter had lacerated his kidney. Luckily the bleeding had stopped but he was ordered to stay overnight in the hospital to ensure it didn’t start again. After settling in to a room, Chase stayed with his friend while John and I raced back and packed and cleaned the condo like lunatics. We returned two hours later and I took Chase’s place and slept on the in-room makeshift bed-from-a-couch. I use the term “slept” lightly considering we had a steady stream of nurses checking and re-poking poor Peter every few hours.

We were released early the next morning, in time to head to Denver for our flight back home.

In all my years of skiing, surrounded by friends and family and skiers of all levels, never have we had such an adventurous trip. Never have I had to call a parent and report bad news and on this trip, it happened twice. But between the incidents and unique situations, there were certainly a lot of good times and overall fantastic memories of the year we skied BREAK-enridge.