As I write this column I’m in pain. There are various reasons why — some of them undoubtedly age-related. But the most likely cause is the fall I took Wednesday coming off the chair lift at Mad River Glen in Vermont. “Mad River Glen, Ski It If you Can,” goes the bumper sticker. But first you need to successfully disembark from the lift before you can ascertain if you’re capable of meeting the mountain’s challenge.
The tumble, and the pain, came on the final morning of a several days ski trip with my college friend Bruce. Our journey began with a stop, for old time’s sake, at the Middlebury Snow Bowl. I should have seen it as an omen when I took my first fall there. The fall was insignificant. Getting back on my feet was the problem.
You know that fitness assessment that measures lower body strength, flexibility and balance by being able to get off the floor without using your hands or arms? Try doing so wearing a pair of rental skis?
An obstacle I’ve faced since I started skiing at fifteen is putting on my boots. The technology has vastly improved since the ski industry’s adolescence. Nonetheless, it seems almost impossible to buckle even the latest model ski boot without breaking into a sweat.
Our destination was Smugglers Notch in northern Vermont where we had the use of a condo thanks to the generosity of Bruce’s sister Carla. There are various theories about why I was able to satisfy my urge to ski by lunchtime while Bruce helped close the lifts. These include the fact that’s he’s a better skier than I am, he’s a manly man, and he has a higher pain threshold than I do.
Bruce kindly skied with me during the morning and then, while I used the afternoons to nap, he’d tackle black diamond runs such as one where he found himself perched on a block of solid ice — with not even a suggestion of snow. After he survived he confessed to experiencing a brief moment of fear.
I would have assumed that my scariest passage had come the next morning when both my skis released on a steep slope. It didn’t qualify as a fall, per se. But so what. I found myself seated with the skis several feet above me. That shouldn't have presented a problem except that there was no way to reach them. The snow was packed so hard that it was impossible for my boots to gain any traction.
Fortunately, another skier came along and delivered them. But the danger hadn’t passed. If you’re at the top of a mountain and have no other way down, besides hoping that the ski patrol shows up with a gurney, you’re basically obligated to get back on your skis on a perilous pitch while they do their best to slide away again. Somehow, my boot succeeded in locking itself into the binding but not without me questioning whether there might be better use for my time. The episode also offered an excellent excuse to take the rest of the afternoon off.
There are two aspects of the sport that I’ve shrunk away from since I started my peripatetic skiing journey as a teenager. I hate skiing under lifts because I feel as if I’m being judged. And I associate getting off the lift with childhood trauma, perhaps because I fell the first I tried in Sugarbush around 1968. The fall didn’t hurt. The humiliation killed me.
So it felt as if my skiing career had come full circle and may have reached its logical conclusion when I tumbled coming off that lift at Mad River Glen. Maybe he’s just trying to make me feel better, by Bruce claims it was his fault. Our skis got tangled, and as he pulled away my legs went out from under me.
I’m an extremely cautious person and thus have gracious little experience with collapsing for any but medical reasons. Yet I hit the ground, or rather the packed snow, like a load of bricks, flat on my back.
I recall emitting some animal sound, equal parts shock, pain and grief. I somehow managed to get back on my feet but instantly realized that something was wrong. I was conscious and relatively certain my ribs weren’t involved but I’d never previously contemplated how many muscle groups your back contains and how each of them is ready to have malignant fun at your expense.
Nonetheless, I skied several additional runs. I even made Bruce take a video of me taking graceful turns on an essentially flat slope to show my family that their fears I might return in a body bag were exaggerated.
The pain didn’t really start in earnest until I sat down while waiting for Bruce to complete several more runs and for the Aleve I’d scored at the Mad River gift shop to kick in. I couldn’t have been all that injured, I surmised, because I thoroughly enjoyed the pub’s grilled portobello mushroom sandwich. The problem arose when I tried to stand up. I also realized that there was no way I was going to get my boots off without assistance. But the crew at the rental shop couldn’t been more accommodating.
One of them even escorted me to the first aid hut where the physician on duty deducted that I hadn’t suffered a concussion due to me snappy answers to his questions. He predicted that I’d probably feel better in a few days.
Stipulating that I’ve led a reasonably charmed life, the three plus hour drive home — with Bruce behind the wheel — was easily the most excruciating of my life as my back tightened into knots. So will I ever ski again? I’d like to think I will. Making a few nice turns, no matter your skill level, remains a treat.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
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