Something funny happened while I was skiing

1 Jun

 really wish I was making this up.


I was skiing on Friday,  having a good time, enjoying myself, when I realized that I needed to take a wiz.  I was far away from any usable bathroom but yet close to the trees, so I made the decision to excuse myself for a few minutes and head off into the trees.  Modesty dictated that I had to go a certain distance into the trees and common courtesy made me  relieve myself into a tree bank about ten feet down from me.  Almost immediately after I had taken Mr. Happy out for a piece of fresh air, I heard the distinctive sound of a snowboard carving its way down the mountain. 


I can’t believe what happens next.


The snow-boarder pushed me in the back, and I tumbled down into the tree pit, cock in hand (interestingly enough, since I was tumbling down head first, I choose to protect my penis instead of my head…hmm), I flipped forward, and saw with horror that my left ski had come lose and was now heading down the mountain, into the thick part of the forest.  I had been having trouble with this ski for the entire season since the brakes on it had stopped working.  This meant that my ski was now a free spirit moving down the mountain with only the chance of it being stopped was another object.  I did try to dive for it, with my hot dog still without a bun, but I just missed it…I was so close.  And, yes, my penis was still out flapping around like it was pin-the-tail on the donkey…I briefly wondered why I had never heard of anybody getting frost-biting on what is now I realize my favorite organ. 


First thing was first, I got my lingus back where it belonged and I began to pull myself out of the tree-crevasse.  My only wish at that point was to at least hear a “Sorry Dude” from the snow-boarder who put me into this circumstance.  That is the last good thought I will of him for the rest of my life.


I have been skiing for 27 years.  I have gone through every type of terrain, storms, crashes, and close calls; this is a long way of saying I am probably a little over-confident of my skills.  So, I followed the track of the ski into the thick parts of the forest, I briefly noticed that there were no other ski or snow-board tracks around me..this should have triggered a warning that the terrain wasn’t skiable for mere mortals.  Then I saw my ski, sitting on a ledge, in a position I can only describe as taunting and tempting to go and get it.  I skied over to it, leaned down to pick it up, when the snow gave just enough for me to lose my balance and tumble down the cliff, throwing the ski into the air as it shot off into even a thicker part of the forest and, guess what, I fell into another tree-crevasse.  I thought to myself at this point that this was at least a improvement over my last position since the one-eyed worm of wonder was still hiding in it’s lair. 


Here, this was when I noticed that my lip was bleeding…a lot.  Once again, I pulled myself out, using the the tree branches as a ladder and using my ski to wedge and balance myself up the snow drift.  This was spring skiing conditions, which is a nice way of saying the snow right here is different from the snow next to it.  As I put my left foot on the ledge, it sank enough so that I couldn’t get it out yet I could still be standing.  I was hanging from a tree- branch, left foot stuck in snow, when I realized that my ski on my right foot had impaled the snow and was now stuck as well…and it my left foot was sinking into the snow.  Feeling my groin complain to my brain that I had about three seconds until I had torn it, I throw myself to the right-side, falling back into the tree-pit.  For a brief second, I thought I might be in for a soft landing until I hit my head a root sticking out of the ground.


I used the adrenaline from this to pull myself up, first by removing my ski and throwing it up out of the pit, then climbing my way out.  Putting my right-ski back on, I could see and continue to track the wayward ski down into what I would later realize is unski-able terrain…I crashed five times, and, at one point, I was so tired that, I rolled down the hill.  But, at last, I found my orphan ski…sitting…majestically…in a tree below a cliff.  It had apparently had slide down the mountain, avoiding every obstacle that I had hit, gone off the cliff, and landed in a tree right near the cliff. 


I then did a very stupid thing. 


Forgetting that one of the key differences between me and other mammals is that I have the Pinter gripe and I can use tools accomplish my goals.  Instead, I decided to crawl a little way up the hill, and try to jump–yes, jump–into the tree to knock it from its rather precarious balancing act.  This didn’t work out the way I planned, but then again, I didn’t think about my landing…actually I did, right after I jumped off the cliff and I had a split second to think about what I had just done.  My plan to knock it lose worked, but as I saw it fall–rather gracefully actually–in a more close-up version of what I wanted, onto my nose.  I couldn’t believe what had happened, as I felt blood running down my face, and, of course, I slid into another tree pit. 


But, at least had my ski. 


I was getting pretty good at crawling out of trees, so I managed to scapper up fairly quickly, put on both my skies, and start to puick my way down a obstacle course of trees, roots, and rocks that seemed to all have my name written all over it.  Then, there was the tree branches, which did in fact had distrubed my name and description at their morning meeting to jump in front of my way at every opportunity.  I belive the captian of the tree branches informed them to meet me with “extreme prejudice.”  So, I had to use my arms and poles to protect my face and body rather than help me balance.  Skiers probably know where I’m going with this, but having my arm protecting my face means I had my visability…actually I didn’t have any visability except two feet in front of my face.  But, I was doing okay, until I felt my left leg stop while my right leg continued forward.  My left ski, once again, had come lose because my foot had gotten trapped, under a snow-covered root that could just fit my ski through, but not the rest of my foot.  I saw my ski go flaying off into even thicker trees as I, once again, fell into a tree-pit. 


This time, I wasn’t so lucky.  I broke my goggles to the point where I couldn’t see out of them, and I had appared to have bounced off one tree into another tree where my right forearm broke my fall.  I brushed myself off, stood up, leaned against a tree, and caught my breath.  Then I felt something warm crawling and slithering down my right arm.


Every bad action movie has a scene like this.


I took off my glove and watched blood tricked down my arm and onto the snow.  As any movie goer knows, this is the scene where you think for a brief second that the character isn’t hurt, then they show this, and you know, the character–hero, villian, anti-hero–is mortally injured and going to die. 


All I could think was, “This is not a good thing.”


At this point, my muslces felt they were filled with battary acid, I had started to get work out -shema, I was bleeding from at least three areas, and I would have given half my liver for a Dr. Pepper and clean water. 


As I continued to hunt my ski, I realized that I was leaving almost a Hansel and Grettle trail of blood behind me.  I thought this was a good thing.  When they sent the blood-hounds to find where I was, I had left them enough hints to find me.  I chortled over this for a few seconds until I tried to turn down a tight slope and I, just realized that, my legs were no longer responding to my orders. 


They had mutined–probably because they justly felt that I was an incompetent leader–and decided to crash and tumble me down the slope.  As I laid there, I thought to myself, how long would it be before ski patrol found me?  Or, would they find me?  I wouldn’t look here for me.


I carry a pad of paper and pen around me everywhere I go.  And, wrote down the following: “If you are reading this, something bad has happened.  Tell my family that I want to be cremated, have my ashes spread in this forest (then get the deposit back on my urn), so I can haunt every snow-boarder who comes through here.  Also, have this stretch of forest named “Belitz’s Bane”…thank you.”


As I was thinking about how I was very confortable where I was and that this is a good thing since I don’t appear to be able to move myself, I loooked to the left (I was head-first on the slopes), I saw my bastard, mother-$%(^@!, insane, and probably homicidal ski seating next to me, and then…in the distance, I saw the ski slope I had abondoned for my blatter. 


I crawled the last ten feet, with skies in hand onto the slope and crawled my way out of the forest.  It had been two hours since I got pushed.  This is what I looked like: I was bleeding from multiple sources, I was covered in needles, tree branches, and with a dented beyond recognition helmet.  An older guy skied up to me was I was lying like a slug on the ski slope and asked if I was okay.


I looked around and said, “Hmm, I must be in Vail.”  It is a point of pride that after you go through something…challanging..that you say something dry and humerous.  I still think this is a pretty good line.


I slide the rest of the way down the slope because my muslces felt more fried than a McDonald’s fish sandwhich.  I put my skies on and started down the hill.  I was gaining speed and needed to turn–I had forgot that my leg muscles where mutineers–and, much to my dismay, I found I couldn’t turn anymore.  So, I pointed my skies downhill and I didn’t stop or tun until I collapsed at the bottom of the ski hill.  I got up, and stumbled into my favorite Vail bar: Garfinkles.  I managed to walk to the bar, and ask, “Could I please a glass of water and access to your first aid kit?”  As I opened my coat, a canvass of tree needles, branches, roots, and even some leafes, fell out and spread them out on my floor reminding of my pain, my misery, and why the mountain will always win in the end.


I cleaned myself up, sat down at the bar–at went for the nearest stool…because I couldn’t make it any farther–when the manager of Garfinkles informed that I would be drinking for free until I either made it out of the bar under my own power, or I pass out in back of the bar.  I was happy with both of these outcomes. 


I took me two days before I could walk up stairs again.


Why don’t other people tell stories like this?


Further Bulletins as Events Warrant




PS I think I’m suffering from post-tramautic stress disorder form this.  Does anybody know a good counseler who make me forget this happened?


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