Skiing

As I approached the tree at approximately Warp Factor Nine, I waited expectantly for my life to flash before my eyes. After all, I was on a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, with my rather squishy body about to collide with a rather solid trunk.

I hear such situations aren't good for your health.

The End of Life Review wasn't happening. I must have been Too New to Rate. I decided to do the overview myself, hoping that in the last moments before impact I'd achieve some sort of brilliant insight that would convince the universe to allow me to live.

First, I was born. This was a messy and painful procedure that involved a lot of blood, guts and tweezers and it left me with a profound feeling of... let's just skip ahead a bit to the good part.

My skiing adventure started in Staunton, a small town near Charlottesville and about halfway between here and Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia. We arrived without pre-arranged lodging, food, or any idea what to do. I had been told stories of the past trips -- epic tales of my friends' abilities to score sleeping quarters from nubile youngsters within moments of arrival. I looked forward to watching masters of the game using their abilities and learning from their display.

The town, however, was deserted. Mary Baldwin (all-female) College, the source of the group's previous successes, was all but abandoned. The bars around town were almost empty, filled with the dregs of the town, and several butch lesbians. [NAME REDACTED 1] and [NAME REDACTED 2] tried their hardest to convince some of the disciples of Sappho to allow us to breach their walls, but to no avail. 

I mean, they were lesbians.

At the end of the night, the group split up. While half of us (the half that I like to call "sane") got a cheap room at a HoJo, the other half decided to wander around town to find some suitable place to crash. They tried the house where they had stayed the previous weekend, but the only occupant wanted nothing to do with a bunch of dudes banging on the door at 3 AM.

I can't imagine why.

Finally, while the sane group had happily settled in for the night, the other group decided to go to the campus. They found an unlocked science building and slept inside until one of them had an astonishing insight.

"Hey guys," said The Smart One. "We're breaking and entering on an all-girls campus. Are we sure that this is the best idea?"

"Sure it is," mumbled [1]. "Why would anyone have a problem with us chilling in here?"

Fortunately for the non-sane group, The Smart One prevailed and convinced the others to go sleep in the car. 

Saturday morning, thoroughly disappointed in the Staunton Experience, we set off for Snowshoe. The road from Staunton led us through beautiful forests, re-purposed mining towns, and, at the state line, a sign cheerfully informing us that incest was now legal.

We arrived, geared up, and hit the slopes. Brimming with confidence, and a five minute lesson from Felix, I attached my skis to my boots, turned to face the hill, and started off.

Five seconds later, my scream rang through the air like a carillon and my head hit the snow with a resounding crunch. After a brief struggle, I got back up, reattached my skis, and tried again.

After the fourth or fifth fall (the repeated impacts caused some minor memory failure), I realized that Felix hadn't taught me some of the minor details needed to ski successfully, such as a) turning and b) stopping.  I trundled up the mountain and went to the "magic carpet" area, where you could learn how to accomplish these important maneuvers on a slope that was about as steep as a desk.

The lack of speed didn't stop me, however. I fell down at least six or seven more times before finally figuring out the basics. I returned to the run and started down. This time, I lasted at least fifteen seconds before falling. I slowly made my way down the slope, pausing often to collect various things I had left behind -- skis, poles, goggles, my internal organs, etc.

I reached the bottom, finally, and got on the ski lift. This part, at least, seemed easy. You simply sat down, lowered the bar, and enjoyed the view going up. I reached the top of the lift, stood up, allowed the lift to push me forward, and promptly fell over, causing the operator to stop the lift.

I was a bit embarrassed, but I had done it. One complete run. In only three hours. But I had done it, successfully. Over the course of the day, I did the same run several times, slowly learning how to navigate the various terrain features without losing structural (or intestinal) integrity. 

The sun was setting when I made my final run of the day. After a pep talk with Felix and Dave, I decided to take a slightly different fork. They told me it would be slightly harder, but if I successfully navigated it, I'd be able to do many other trails across the resort. I set off, passing by several Keaton-shaped impressions along the way. I slowed down at the decision point and turned down the fork.

Felix and Dave said it would be slightly harder. What they didn't say was that by "slightly harder" they meant "a sudden descent followed by a leap over a gaping chasm filled with yetis and other possibly imaginary monsters."

Fortunately, I was prepared for such a scenario. I knew exactly what to do. I panicked. I tried to cut back and forth, but I picked up speed anyway. I hit the bottom of the run hard, and overbalanced. I held an impromptu yard sale, my equipment flying in different directions as I slid right off the course and towards the forest.

As I lay on my stomach sliding across the snow going way too fast, it came to me. A brilliant insight. A profound thought that would hopefully be sufficient to placate the Gods of the Slopes and permit my survival. It popped into my head with frightful and immediate clarity.

I'm not a very good skier.

With that thought, I slid into the tree with a dull thud -- and remained among the living. I moved my limbs, tested my strength, got back up, and lived to ski another day.

The next day, I did the bunny hill.

Twenty times.