A skiing monstrosity

By DAVID KITTREDGE
Renaissance Redneck
While I was in my teens I often took advantage of the night skiing at Arrowhead Skiway, making numerous runs down the practice slope trying to improve my inabilities with stem christie turns and snow plow stops. I was never able to parallel ski or vadel like the better skiers, but at least I was outside and getting some much needed exercise in the dead of winter. Skiing no matter how exasperating was still more fun than doing homework for my high school classes. 

One rather cold wind-blown evening while desperately trying to embed my muscle memory with the proper skiing techniques, I hit a patch of ice, fell and rolled over while my skis and bindings did not. I tore the ligaments in my right knee, as was later diagnosed. A good Samaritan noticed me writhing on the slope and went to notify the ski patrol. 

When the medic showed up with the toboggan I realized it was an arch enemy with whom I had vied with for the affections of a gal in our high school. Much to his chagrin the girl had chosen to go steady with me. As he slid over to me with the rescue sled he recognized who I was and in a very sinister tone said,” Ooooooh, it’s you Kittredge. Boy am I going to give you a ride down the hill!” Obviously he hadn’t gotten over our previous joustings for the fair maiden. 

I was quite mixed in my emotions in that I was still self satisfied at besting him in romance and my overall dislike for the fellow persisted but, at the same time I was in dire need of being rescued off the hill while my mind was wracked with pain. So I merely inquired, “Bob, maybe we should wait for more help?” I actually was thinking more in terms of having witnesses rather than help but was merely trying to appear diplomatic. He replied with a ghoulish grin,”Nope, I’ve got this.” and I was at his mercy at least I hoped for mercy while I tried desperately to quell my fears. 

He did give me a toboggan ride down the hill with that grin pasted to his face, which I realized later was merely a grimace from the exertion of holding back the sled while on skis. He did his job in a courteous and professional manner although I couldn’t say much for his bedside manner.

When I joined the Big Canoe Club, otherwise know as the U.S. Navy, I ended up in California for a while. During that time I was invited to go skiing in the Lake Tahoe region. I, along with a couple of other shipmates, embarked in a Volkswagen bug, driving through Donner pass into the Sierra Nevada mountains to a ski area known as Alpine Meadows. 

The month was March and we were in store for some spring skiing on a 14-foot base of snow. It was a bad skiers paradise in that we would be skiing above the treeline with no arboreal impediments to cramp my style. 

Referring to my stance while skiing on the old straight sided skis as a style is a gross adulteration of the term; it is almost a low blow in fact. My style of skiing at that time looked like it was evolved from watching Boris Karloff meander around as Frankenstein’s monster in the old movies. All I needed was a couple of bolt heads sticking out of my neck and people would have thought that Halloween had come early. You have probably seen people take this stance on skis, stiff, straight legs with the arms out straight while the poles dangle loosely from the hands as if they are just carrying excess trappings. I still couldn’t turn well but at least at this time I could stop for the safety of others as well as myself.

As I rode the chairlift my fellow riders and I would converse and they would often take notice of my “foreign” accent and inquire as to where I was from. I explained that I was from New Hampshire and the responses I got were  “Where is that?”, or “Isn’t that part of New York?” I also named a few ski areas in New England, none of which they had ever heard of with the exception of Tuckerman Ravine. 

The skiing went well that day, I didn’t have need for medical assistance, but I did make the mistake of skiing without googles or sunblock because on my meager government salary I had opted to buy enough beer to get me through the weekend and forgo the eye and skin protection. When I was done skiing for the day I looked like something out of another horror movie with a face sautéed to a crisp resembling a cheese and pepperoni pizza and red eyeballs that looked like they belonged on top of an ice cream sundae. By the time I got back to the Naval Base my face was a mass of oozing sores and I was informed by a superior officer that I could be court- martialed for damaging government property. I found it interesting just where I stood in the eyes of the Big Canoe Club. Luckily I was never court-martialed.

I skied only sporadically throughout the years hence until I found out about shaped skis during various conversations with avid skiers. They claimed that shaped skis were so easy to ski on that some very good skiers refused to ski on them because it took away the challenge that the old straight skis provided. I’ve since skied many seasons on shaped skis turning, stopping, and planting my poles like normal people without accidents involving an ambulance. Once in a while I see people on skis doing somersaults or purposely skiing backwards down a slope and I say to myself, “I’ve done that, but not on purpose,” style points being excluded of course.