Thursday, March 19, 2009

Tragedy on the slopes

Tragedy on the slopes

Back in another lifetime, I spent three and a half years living in Colorado.

It’s a long story. Suffice it to say that I got my degree from the University of Colorado.

I will always remember my dismay the first time I made the drive from Pennsylvania, including the moment I crossed the border from Kansas into Colorado.

Yes, I survived Kansas. For those who have never done it, Kansas is pretty much one day of driving. You can look out and almost see where you’re going to be tomorrow.

So exiting Kansas and entering Colorado is something to celebrate. Which quickly ebbs when you notice that you don’t see any mountains. Sorry, they’re still a few more hours of driving away.

I always wondered why Colorado did not give everything east of the Denver airport to Kansas. The terrain is pretty much the same: Flat.

Eventually, I arrived in the Mile High City. And took in one of the truly amazing sights in this country. The Rocky Mountains. Driving is fairly easy in Denver because you can’t get lost. You always know where west is. All you have to do is look at that solid wall that looms west of the city.

Before I arrived in Colorado, I had never been on a pair of skis. But for those three years, I skied my brains out. Actually got to be a fairly accomplished skier.

In August of 1978, I packed all my earthly belongings in the back of a pickup truck, pointed it back toward I-70, and headed east again.

Unfortunately, I have not been back since. I have promised my wife and kids that sometime I will take them out there and show them the sights. Even more incredible, I have not been on skis since either.

Don’t ask me why. I’m not really sure. Maybe I just got spoiled by skiiing in Colorado. One year when I returned to Pennsylvania for Christmas, some friends who were ski bums insisted they take me to the Poconos. After what I thought was a drive akin to cruising Kansas, I finally asked, “When are we going to get to the slopes?”

“The parking lot is right up here on the right,” they told me. I was expecting mountains. These were more like hills.

I told them of a place in Colorado called A-Basin. The parking lot there is above the timber line. It’s always the first place to open and the last to close. They hold a spring fling there for their final weekend where guys ski in shorts and some girls hit the slopes in bikinis.

Then there’s the weather. People don’t understand the weather in Colorado. The winters aren’t that bad. You get sun every day. One of the worst sunburns I ever got was on my face after a weekend in Vail. The dryness of the atmosphere also makes for a complete different kind of snow. It’s like soap powder. When I skied in the Poconos, it was raining. There was as much ice as snow.

Or maybe I’m just too cheap. When I was in Colorado, a lift ticket was $10. I’m astounded at what people fork over now.

I’ve been thinking a lot about skiing since word came out of the accident involving the actress Natasha Richardson.

Of the hundreds of times I hit the slopes in Colorado, I can remember some serious tumbles. Not once did I ever wear a helmet. Most of the times I didn’t even wear a hat.

Maybe I was just lucky. Clearly Richardson was not. After taking what seemed like a not especially serious fall, she declined any medical attention. But an hour later she was dealing with a throbbing headache. She wound up on life-support. This morning she’s dead.

Most of the really serious accidents I saw in Colorado involved people skiing like a bat out of hell, sometimes slamming into other skiers, or smashing into trees while going out of control. Although I also saw a guy break his leg once while standing in the line for the lift.

These days I’m not much of a winter person. I make like a hermit for four months. I’ve often thought about giving skiiing another shot.

This morning I think I can live without it.

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