Evans and I are in Crested Butte. This is the third time we have been here during ski season, but today was the first time we have skied. Evans grew up on skis, but twenty-plus-years is a long time and there is that new knee, so we didn’t know how that would go. I believe it has been 27 years since I last skied. I wasn’t that great back then, so I decided to start with a lesson while Evans skied alone.
Here are a few pertinent facts. The base area is at 9,375 feet above sea level. The top of the chairlift is 11,875. The air is thin. It is well over a mile to get from the top to the bottom using the easiest runs.
I am 57-years old. No one has ever confused me with an athlete. My idea of exercise is pretty aggressive water aerobics and screaming at Tennessee sporting events.
The morning began well. I looked really cute in my orange and white ski clothes. All the gear fit. I was one of two people in a class with an award-winning ski instructor Rick “The Hun” Barton, (who was 70 years old, has written and published two Christian books, has his D.Min, and has a lifelong dream to sing with the Gaithers.) He thought I said I had not skied in seven years. I reiterated the twenty-seven part.
Walking to the lift I realized it was really cold and my goggles were completely fogged up. I had a moment of doubt, but was determined to be a sport. I managed to get on and off the lift, which is no small feat.
The teacher was great. I was slow, but actually remembered what little I had learned about skiing and did ok. I stayed in control. I traversed. I managed to mostly keep my skis parallel. It was that pesky breathing when there is no oxygen that kept tripping me up. I made it almost to the bottom when I finally had a fall. It was not bad and The Hun taught me the best way to get myself up. Overall a very successful morning.
Only after we stopped did I realize just how tired I was. I made the mature decision not to extend my lesson to a full day.
I met Evans for lunch. In the time I managed to do one run, he had done SIX! SIX RUNS! On a new knee having not skied in over twenty years. SIX!!! I didn’t actually eat because I was too tired and cold, but after sitting in the warm restaurant I rallied. I convinced Evans that we should ski one more run together.
Now, let me clarify, I don’t ski with Evans. He is much better than I am. Also, I don’t take instruction well from him. But I knew I was not ready to go alone and I really wanted to try again. He did not think it was a great idea, but he agreed.
The ride up was great. I did even better getting off the lift the second time. And immediately skied the wrong direction taking us away from the easiest slope. But all these slopes are marked Green which means Easy, right? Easy is a relative term.
There are very few times in my life I have been frozen with fear, but looking down that hill was one of them. Evans was very patient. I tried doing all the moves I had reviewed this morning. Only now, my legs REFUSED to obey. Evans (actually very kindly) encouraged me to turn. I tried. My mind said TURN. My legs said NO. NO. Noooo.
I am pretty sure the purpose of the helmet is to give your head something to hit. I fell. I got up. I fell again. I got up more slowly. I fell again. Do you know how much energy it takes to get up out of powder snow? A great deal.
Let me summarize by saying it took all afternoon to get to the bottom of that mountain. I did not ski properly. I prayed a lot. I did not cry. (That’s actually a big deal because I really wanted to cry.)
Finally, the only way I could do it was to have Evans ski about fifty yards ahead and I would very slowly make my way to him.
I do have a serious question for the Crested Butte Mountain Resort. Why, on earth, is the last 200 yards of the mountain a sheer descent. I “side slipped” those last miles. By this time it was snowing so hard that I couldn’t even see Evans. At one point my skis windmilled and the only way to avoid a spiral fracture was to somehow get one of them off and fall down. I actually just sat there a while that time.
I finally made it to a fence (as in I ran into the fence). There was no way I could ski around the fence, like all the six year olds flying past me. I took my skis off and walked. Evans found me and took my gear.
My husband is a saint. He gave up his first afternoon of skiing in twenty years to baby, beg, encourage, assure and physically pick me up off the mountain. He hauled my gear away. He took my boots off. He did not complain once.
I have learned, that at least for now, I am a half day skier. Knowing what to do doesn’t help when your body refuses to do it. Fifty-seven is not twenty-nine. My lungs like oxygen. And I married up.