Mountains are for goats...

...They are not for skinny kids from that Great Plains who hate cold weather.

I was recently talking to a friend of mine about an incident that occurred during one of her family ski trips and it reminded me of all the ill-fated times that I had stupidly ventured out onto the snowy mountainside with wooden planks strapped to my feet.  And while all of the ski trips were fun, the LEAST fun part of ALL of them was the skiing. 

My high school girlfriend and her patient family had taken me with them on a couple trips to Montana.  Before that, I had never done it, so suffice it to say...I was pretty terrible.  I stayed on the easy runs...which I'm sure really enthused the rest of them.  But despite this fact, I'm fairly certain that I dislocated my shoulder on a fall near the bottom of one of the said "easy" runs at one time.  Of course, I didn't say anything for fear that her father would think I was a wuss.  He was a man's man who worked on Diesel engines, did home construction, had giant hands with corn-dog-sized fingers and who was generally good at everything a dude was supposed to be good at.  So instead of doing the sane thing (which would have probably been an MRI), I lifted my arm above my head and it slammed back into place.  At the time I felt like Mel Gibson in "Lethal Weapon"...teetering on the edge of sanity but allthewhile distinctly "tough".  But about 20 minutes later I was delirious with pain and my arm's range of motion would have been rivaled by most quadriplegics.

Everyone in their clan was better than I was, having all been skiing since they were neo-natal...including their youngest.  Let me tell you, having a 4-year-old girl cruise past you on a bunny hill wearing skis that are no longer than a wiffle ball bat really does something to a young man's ego.  When she got up the next morning she immediately began bounding around the condo and I had the sudden urge to lock her in the closet.  And I totally would have too if my ass muscles would have stopped cramping up long enough for me to get up off the couch.  I was wholeheartedly NOT a "natural".  In fact, I firmly believe that the only reason they were able to convince me to continue trying was the fact that I was not yet legally able to drink.  If I had been, I would have spent the entire time getting my drunk on at the little lodge thing they have in the middle of the mountain.  After all, drinking is something at which I DO excel.  And unlike skiing...if done correctly, there is little to no risk of injury.   

I also went skiing in Aspen once.  Yeah, that Aspen.  In college my buddies all decided to go there for an "internship" at the airport.  Their jobs included baggage handling and testing the effects of sleep deprivation and glycol contamination on a young adults ability to consume obscene amounts of alcohol.  In a moment of weakness, they convinced me to come out there (again over spring break) to visit. And while they had spent the lion's share of THEIR time over the past few months SKIING, I had not.  In fact, I had tried my hardest to spend the majority of the Grand Forks winter INdoors.  But once again, over objection, I was forced to ski...this time on a mountain made for people who's pocket books AND skiing prowess greatly exceeded my own.  I had evolved, however, and by then I WAS of legal drinking age.  So after a couple brutal hours of black diamond punishment and taking a pebble in the cheek, I happened upon (read "took the cable cars to") the midway lodge and drank for the balance of the outing.  I had thought I had averted disaster this time around.  But of course, in my self-aggrandizing, slightly drunken state, I clipped into the wrong (MUCH LONGER) skis and jetted uncontrollably (and quite drunkenly) down the side of this mountain and nearly crashed into the grooming machine.

The final chapter, however, came when Shanna and I decided it would be a good idea to go skiing at Mount Hood Meadows while living in Portland, Oregon.  As you can tell from my prior skiing experience, there was quite a lot yet to be mastered about daytime skiing. So it will forever stump me as to why we opted to go at night.  That was mistake one.  (Well, mistake two I guess...if you count "deciding to ski at all" as number one).  Of course, the weather forecast that night was "cold as shit with a chance of fucking sleet".  So in addition to the pricey rental equipment, we had to BUY goggles to keep from permanently damaging our corneas.  It was terrible.  This aside, we were determined to get our money's worth.  And to be honest, drinking wasn't an option this time.  Hell, I could barely see two feet in front of me.  Seriously, Nick Cage couldn't have found the bar in that shitstorm.

Now, my wife and I had (notice the past tense) very contrasting skiing styles.  I tended to be very careful.  I kept from getting anywhere near "out of control" and was generally scared to death of pointing my skis straight downhill for fear that I may get going too fast.  Shanna, on the other hand, tended to ski on the wrong side of "in control" and liked to take sweeping paths across the run like a blind person.  Whether she did this for fun or to try and slow down I do not know.  What I DO know, however, is that these two styles did not mix.

I remember that it was going fairly well.  I may have actually been enjoying myself for a couple minutes when Shanna came up beside me.  She was, as usual, gathering too much speed when she turned right...up the slope of the run.  She went into the sleet further than I could see so I slowed down a bit...but continued down the mountain.  Then I heard her scream "watch out" or "heads up" or "holy fuckin' shit we're going to die" or something to that effect and I turned my head to the right just milliseconds before she smashed directly into my knees...sending me flipping through the air like one of my son's worn stuffed animals.  When I landed, the first thing I did was take inventory to make sure that all of my body parts were attached and that they still operated (at least generally) as they were supposed to.  Everything seemed attached.  However, I didn't have my goggles anymore, my skis were gone, my hat had been sucked halfway off my head, my coat was partially unzipped and I'm fairly certain that, underneath my snow pants, one of my legs had managed to make its way out of my underwear.  The next priority was to find Shanna.  She was sitting down just up the hill, very near where we collided.  She had apparently tried to avoid me by falling to the ground onto her butt.  However, her momentum and speed had made her slide right into me.  People had stopped to assist her and to check her pulse I would imagine.  I also remember the people on the lift yelling down to make sure that everyone was alright.  We had single-handedly made the entire run come to a stop.  Shanna was OK as well, but had developed quite the limp.  I managed to find my skis...which was quite the feat.  And imagine my surprise to find out that it had been broken.  In fact, when Shanna smashed into me, her ASS had actually broken the tip of the ski OFF.  I struggled not to tell her she deserved it. 

Again, I had to ski the remainder of the way down the hill.  Only this time, instead of a drunken adventure with someone else's equipment, it was on a ski with its tip dangling like a cigarette that needed to be ashed.  I lied to the rental dude about hitting a rock on the slope and how he was lucky that I didn't seriously injury myself...lawsuit...blah blah blah.  I could tell that he didn't quite believe the story.  I mean, I would have to really smash into something to actually tear the tip off of the ski.  I don't blame him.  However, I'm POSITIVE he wouldn't have believed a story about my wife breaking it with her ass, either.  So whatever. 

That was the last time I went skiing and I really have no desire to ever do it again.  It's ridiculous.  I have since decided that while I may continue to backpack during the summer months, I will steer well clear of mountains in the winter.  The only thing civilized people should do in snow is shovel and write in it with pee.