Rocky Mountain Hell: My Colorado Ski Trip

Why is it that some people insist they know you better than you know yourself? They insist on trying to instill some undue confidence in your ability to conquer feats of the physical kind. And why, pray tell, do I keep falling for that notion?!

It started when a well-meaning person in my life invited me to travel to Colorado for vacation. Copper Mountain to be precise.

I was finally going to breathe the Rocky Mountain air I'd dreamed about since I first heard and memorized all the words to John Denver's song. Maybe I'd even see it raining fire in the sky?

I would love the snow, the steamy cups of hot chocolate, the quaint souvenir shops. I would master experiencing the vicarious thrill of skiers as they zigzagged effortlessly across the glistening white mountain. But then, at the insistence of that well-meaning person, I decided to trade in my plans for the vicarious thrill for a real one.

A few weeks before we were to leave, I signed up for a ski lesson at the local sporting goods store. That well-meaning person just knew that would be my ticket to the joys of snow skiing.

As I tried to maneuver down the slope of a carpeted conveyor belt, I could hear the shoppers wincing and gasping in polite horror, as they were no doubt watching the splaying of skis, my poles, and me. The sweat started to pour, despite the freshly canned 68-degree air.

What made me even consider that a real mountain would be easier? Part of it I guess, was that video the salesman let me borrow, "Skiing for Dummies" or something like that. Those "Dummy" and "Idiot" series of books and videos are way more advanced than they want you to believe. Don't be fooled.

We arrived in the mile high city and took a shuttle to Copper Mountain.
The day started with hot steamy coffee underneath beautiful skies. Then I caught the "bus" to the "ski school". With conficdence, I picked up my skis, boots, and poles, and made my way to the line where the rest of the morning's skiers and wannabe's were waiting. I braced for my new horizon-expanding experience. I made fast friends with a gal in line around my same age and also wearing shiny braces across her crooked teeth. Maybe that was a sign come to think of it? We should have had our teeth straightening and our skiing abilities taken care of a long time ago.

I wore a ski ensemble I'd picked up at my favorite thrift store for less than twenty dollars. It included a rather cool-looking black suede hat with fake black fur trim. Made me feel Russian. The rest of the outfit made me appear as if I suffered from a serious case of color blindness and had recently lost about a hundred pounds. Oh well, I was toasty warm anyway.

"Sven", I'll call him, finally showed up, looking like he'd thrown back more than a few hot toddies the night before. He gave us his canned speech about catching the lift, blah, blah, blah, and before I knew it, I'd actually managed to sit my butt down on the moving bench.

I was feeling pretty smug for those five minutes.

I secretly prayed for the lift to stick. I'd have been content to dangle from our perch under the amazing blue skies and watch the action below. My new friend and I could chat away and I even had some hard candy in my pocket in case we got hungry.

But alas, we kept on chugging up the mountain. And we had to get off. I did that part okay, too.

I was feeling pretty smug for those two minutes.

Then Sven started to drill out instructions. I processed the first couple of steps, but after that I blanked out. I was starting to sweat bullets again. He wasn't bad looking but not good-looking enough for me to want to continue on for impression's sake. Another ski myth shattered. The first one being that they don't call them 'bunny slopes" anymore.

First thing I did when it was time to move was plow into my new friend, both of us landing in a semi-laughing heap of crisscrossed skis. I managed to get up with no outside help. The thought of being the defendant in a personal injury lawsuit didn't cross my mind at that point.

Plus I didn't figure she'd want to sue me since we'd become fast friends and were bonded by our late thirties braces wearing coincidence.

Then I did the same thing to the Sven, came at him in slow-mo, sprawl-eagle legged just like you see in the cartoons, and into his arms, which were waiting, but not exactly welcoming. I got up. Then I did it again, just like the first time, to prove I was no one-crash wonder. By then I figured he was starting to think he might want to sue me.

Remember in the 70's on ABC's "Wide World of Sports" where Keith Jackson voices "The Agony of Defeat" over footage of a spectacular downhill crash by a professional skier? So I wasn't exactly doing a triple somersault or anything close when I experienced my own agony, but I'll never laugh at that clip if I ever see it again.

As every uncoordinated fiasco of the physical kind I'd ever experienced in my life flashed before me, my flight or fight response kicked in.

I had to find a way off that mountain without relying on my own ability to cajole a couple of wooden (or maybe it was fiberglass) sticks into riding me down the mountain. I needed motorized transportation! Ohhh yeah, that was the ticket. I closed my eyes for a minute and went to that place in my head where I just don't care what anyone is thinking and hailed myself a passing snowmobile. Sure, the driver was a stranger in a ski mask but I plopped down on the seat and put my arms around his waist without a second thought.

The devil himself could have been driving and I wouldn't have cared.

I was red-faced and bug-eyed, just shy of psychotic. I don't think I took what would qualify as a real breath until we pulled up in the parking lot of "Rocky Mountain Ski School Hell."

That I'm a grown woman with certain limitations in my physical prowess is something I can live with. I do a few things pretty well. Snow skiing is not one of them, not now, or most likely ever.

I can live with that.

And maybe a few other people have a better chance at doing some things they're good at too awhile longer with me safely off that mountain. So I'll hang up my boots, poles, and skis and leave them there for the next perpetrator to don. And that well meaning person? Well, let's just say the road to "Rocky Mountain Ski School Hell" is no longer paved with his intentions.