Ski is the Limit

Every winter, I’m reminded that there are two kinds of people. Those who ski and those who don’t. But it’s really not as simple as it sounds. Skiers are basically people who love to wear wacky, slippery footwear, and glide down steep, scary, snow-slopes, being fully aware that they could end up twisting their backs, breaking their bones, or simply, in the gut of a very famished wolf. As for non-skiers, they are usually happy to be alive, and can often be seen enjoying the wretchedness of winter sports on TV.

I’m not much of what you might call a sporty individual, if you disregard those biking miles and tennis points. To give you an idea - I generally elude looking down when, say, on the terrace, if I’ve been gritty enough to get there in the first place. And ‘tall,’ in my dictionary, puts the ceiling on ten feet, or thereabouts. So you can imagine what the prospect of boogying on a very craggy sand dune, stomach down, could do to me.

A few years ago, along the colossal, shifty sand eskers of Te Paki Stream in New Zealand, I was summoned and handed a boogie board to lie on. Petrified, I dropped the board, (never mind that I nearly tore my left toe apart) yowled, and implored my tour guide to let me go. But being sternly resolute, he dragged me to a smaller, less daunting mound of sand, and backed me up with some basic grounding, and a lot of reassuring. I then stood and witnessed many people boogying. They were basically being hurled like lumber on planks, and, on touching bottom, they appeared to have been casually axed off their boards. So, readying myself for the absolute pits, I lay down on the board, like a goat ready for its sacrificial ceremony, and went slinking down. Eyes shut, nerves clenched, I landed at the base, with a lungful of very sandy air. And somehow, several grueling sashays later, I was proclaimed bonafide boogier.

So when I was asked to go skiing in Wisconsin, I thought, why not. All I had to do was stand atop a snow-covered cliff, slide down, collapse, coalesce with gravity, get circled around by sneering six-year olds, and if I didn’t feel mortified enough, go back up for more. And since I couldn’t even stand erect with ski boots on, I took lessons at a beginner’s camp. Once everyone had been gathered up, the instructor slithered down, ducking every now and then, turning stylishly, and yelling, “Come on, follow me,” as if it was no big deal. But unless you were raised by mountain sheep in Montana, you’ll need more than that to take off and alight in one piece.

Anyhow, I took a crack at it, and haven’t looked back since. What I mean is, I haven’t looked back at the gradient of the slope halfway through, slammed into a fellow skier, and plummeted like a bag of bricks onto the gear-rental shack.