Slope safety
'Let go of the rope,' and other warning ski tales
I'm a walking poster for ski safety and the perfect example of why helmets should be firmly affixed atop all noggins while on the slopes.
So, as we get ready to observe National Safety Awareness Week beginning Saturday through Jan. 22, I share a few reasons I can personally attest that safety is a worthwhile goal on the slopes.
It all started with my first trip to a mountain some 27 years ago.
A herd of us from my junior high advanced (yes, advanced) PE class rode the yellow weenie to Purgatory - now known as Durango Mountain Resort - in southwest Colorado.
A half day of lessons were required before we were turned loose to terrorize other skiers the rest of the day.
I didn't even wait for the ski school to end before I started the destruction.
My first trip on the rope tow should have been reason enough for the instructor to send me back to the bus.
We were half way up the bunny hill when I lost my balance. But instead of falling over and scampering out of the way of other skiers, I held on, trying to regain my balance.
I ended up falling anyway, pulling the rope with me just enough to knock over another dozen skiers as well. They had to stop the rope tow until everybody could collect themselves.
At the top our group instructor just looked at me and shook his head as he said, "that's one I've never seen before."
We spent the rest of the morning mastering the snowplow - or at least trying to. We snowplowed our way down the hill over and over, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't snowplow my way into a stop.
I could turn, and if I turned far enough, I'd end up going uphill, which would bring me to some semblance of a stop, but I couldn't bring myself to a controlled stop without a fall.
The one thing I mastered that first morning on the snow was falling down. I couldn't even get up very well but when it came to falling, I was a master.
I began to use a controlled fall as my own personal method of stopping, despite the instructors constant yelling to turn, turn, turn; pressure on this ski, pressure on that ski, blah, blah, blah.
It would always end up the same.
Fall down, dig skis, pole grips, fingers, everything into the snow until the sliding stopped. Then I had to figure out how to get up.
That worked for the most part until, late in the morning as my confidence grew, I zoomed down the slope - top to bottom without falling - turning back and forth to control my speed.
But then it hit me.
The rope tow line was too close and I didn't have enough room to fall and slide to a stop.
I threw myself down in a panic and slid frantically toward the group of people whose eyes grew wider as they tried to scramble out of the way.
I went into the crowd like a bowling ball and pins exploded in an array of skis, poles, goggles and who knows how many body parts.
I've heard it described as a yard sale on the snow.
It took five minutes for people to gather their gear as people traded poles looking for a matched set.
I was done for the morning.
Through a combination of shame, peer pressure and a little bit of a formal recommendation from my instructor, I slunk off toward lunch.
The second half of the day went much smoother.
An experienced skiing friend took a handful of us to the top and pointed down. "Let's go," he said, and took off down the slope.
He kept us on green and easy blue runs, but it was still a little more difficult than the bunny slope on which we had been.
The "tough love" ski lesson worked. Soon, we were all making clean runs - except when it came time to stop and I slid toward my friends who would scramble out of the way while hurling insults.
Still, I was in relative control, maintaining my speed and changing direction as necessary. I even began to keep my skis parallel for stretches, snowplowing only when necessary.
But I still couldn't stop.
That became an issue when we tackled a more difficult intermediate trail and I found myself skiing back and forth across the run to control my speed.
However, in one area I started going too fast and hit an ice spot.
I tried to turn, but my skis chattered across the ice.
Panicked, I threw myself down into an "emergency stop" slide, but I just kept sliding downhill toward the trees at the edge of the run.
When I hit the powder at the side of the trail, my body flipped around and I went into a tree backwards.
My upper body thumped against the tree as my butt settled deep into the tree well.
My feet - with skis still attached - were in front of me and about head high. I couldn't move.
I had hung on to my poles during the train wreck, but they were of little use.
I tried rolling over, but the depth of the powder and the fact I was wedged against the tree, kept me from being able to wiggle into a position to get up.
Because I was always the last in the group - so I would know where to slide to a stop - my friends were long gone and nobody else was coming by.
And because I was buried in the powder and the branches of the tree hung nearly to the top of the snow, I doubt I could be seen.
I must have sat under that tree for nearly a half an hour before I was able to use my ski poles to release my ski bindings and free my feet.
I tossed my skis out onto the trail and was able to finally wiggle myself into a position to crawl out of the hole and back into the daylight.
Fortunately, eventually, I learned how to stop and slowly taught myself to ski with some measure of skill and style. Well, skill, anyway.
Darren Marcy is a local outdoor enthusiast. Contact him through his Web site at www.DarrenMarcyOutdoors.com.
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