A Reckoning

At one, we met at the hut midway between the top and the bottom of the mountain.  The hut had a crummy restaurant and bathrooms and seemed pretty festive.  From here, you could take a tram to the bottom.

"You want to ski down?" Dick queried.

"Is there a Green to the bottom?"

"I think so."

"You think so?  I don't believe I want to take a Blue yet."

Dick went over to look at a map of the mountain runs painted on a big board.  I struggled over to him, still not doing very well at moving across flat terrain.  By the time I got to him, he was pointing.

"Here.  This is Green.  We can take that."

"Sure," I said.  "Let's go."

We skied over to another lift that would take us to where the run dropped off.  I was beginning to enjoy things.  I was definitely better than the six year olds now after only a few runs.  I was pointing my skis down the hill more and more, though a couple of times I hit bumpy parts of the run and fell back on my heels with that premonition of falling in the pit of my gut.

"This is perfect," Dick said.  "We couldn't ask for better conditions."

He was right.  The runs were snowy and groomed and the day was bright blue.

"Here we go," Dick said as we dropped off the lift.  I drifted down the weak slope out of the way and came to a stop.  I was looking at the signs, a Black Diamond and a Blue.  I began wondering if I would be able to take the lift down.

"Funny," I said.

"What?"

"Where's the Green?"

"Over here," he pointed with his pole.  I turned to look and crossed my skis.  I went down quickly.  People were all about.  I thought to pop up, but the toque on my right knee was too much.  It didn't want to bend that much and I could feel the beginning of a tear.  I lay back, but there was no way to straighten my leg.  The pain continued.  "Fuck," I heard myself say.

"Can't you get up?"

"Yea, yea," I said, but I couldn't get my skis under me.  My knee just wouldn't bend that much.  Dick came over and held out his hand.  Jesus Christ, I thought, imagining the comedy other people saw in this.

"Look at that," I heard imagined voices say, "over there.  Did you see that?  The old guy just fell down and started flopping, and he can't get up.  They shouldn't let people come up here if they can't ski.  There should be some sort of licensing or something.  Look.  He's pathetic."

With loathing, I grabbed Dick's hand and almost pulled him over.  Finally, on the second try, I was standing again.  It felt good.

Dick was laughing at me.

"You've got to learn to get up."

"It was my knee.  It won't bend like that."

"You alright?  Can you ski?"

"Yea, let's go," I said, but I wasn't certain.

"It's just over here," Dick said.  I saw the sign.

"Widow's Run?" I spat.

"What?"

"Widow's Run?" I repeated.  Dick looked at the sign.

"Willow."

I looked again.  He was right.  I realized I was getting paranoid.

"No more of that kind of talk," I heard an angry voice whisper, "or I'll have to use the leeches."  I looked around, but there was only Dick, waiting.

"You go first," he said.  Good idea, I thought as I dropped over the lip.

It was an easy run like I'd been doing all day.  Then we came to a place where the trail split in two and I stopped.  Dick glided up.

"You look good.  You want to take the Blue the rest of the way?"

"Let's just take the Green," I said.  "Maybe I'll do a Blue after lunch.

Dick motioned to the right.

"O.K.  Take it easy on this next part.  It looks tricky for a Green.  Just go slow."

I looked down at a steep, narrow slope.  It was bumpy and didn't seem to have ever been groomed.  Uh-oh.  But there was nothing to do, so. . . bam. . . bam. . . boom.  I'd gotten airborne and gone over backwards.  I could feel my knee torquing again.  Dick skied up behind me.

"Get your skis parallel to the mountain and. . . ."

"I know, I know," I puffed.  But I couldn't get up.  Dick tried talking me through it all but I was hurting.

"Just get me up."  He reached over.  Three tries later, I was on my feet.  Dick was talking, but I wasn't listening much.  I wasn't a third of the way down this stretch.  C'mon, c'mon, I told myself and headed down again.  Bam. . . bam. . . boom.  Wash, rinse, spin, repeat.  But this time, I'd dropped a ski. I bent over to get it, but it seemed a long way away.  As I bent, I felt the ligaments and tendons in my right knee resist.  O.K O.K.  I straightened up,  put my boot on the binding, and stepped down, but I didn't feel a click.  I did it again harder, but the ski skirted away.  Cursing, I limped over to where it lay.  Again, Dick was offering suggestions to which I was deaf.  Maybe it was the altitude.  I was breathing like an asthmatic, my heart pounding away.  My vision was fixed at about five inches from my nose.  Again and again I stepped into the fucking binding.

"Knock the snow off your boot.  Get your ski parallel to the mountain.  Make sure your boot is straight.  You're not doing something right.  Is the binding cocked?  Reach down and pull that lever and check.  Something's not right.  Blah blah blah blah blah."  I was just standing now, looking at the sky, huffing and puffing.  I'd always been a good athlete.  Nothing had ever been like this.  What's wrong with me, I kept wondering?  It's come to this.

Finally, with everything I had, I stomped on the fucking ski.  Click.

"I've got it.  Go ahead."

I didn't give a shit any more.  I pointed my skis down the slope and let go.  I'd turn when I got to the good snow.  And then it was easy.

At the bottom, I was exhausted.  I didn't want to talk about it.  Dick said something, and I said, "Let's go to lunch."  My knee was throbbing.  "That was no fucking Green," I yelled.  "No fucking way that was Green."  Dick was already far ahead.