I lay on my back again. It was the third time I had fallen in almost the exact same spot on the exact same slope. I thought suddenly how ridiculous skiing must sound to someone who has never heard of it.
"Yeah, it's great. You strap two fiberglass planks to your feet, holding two sharp metal poles, and go sliding down a mountain covered in snow and ice."
"That sounds dangerous."
"We skiers prefer to say thrilling."
"What do you do when you get to the bottom?"
"Simple. You board a flimsy little basket and take a ride to the top to do it again."
I chuckled to myself until I realized that there was snow up my sleeve and that one of my skis sat about 20 feet above me. And that it was nighttime.
If there is one thing more stupid than regular skiing, I would say night skiing is a pretty good candidate.
Take everything that you have to deal with in the daytime: the snow, the wind chills, the moguls, the ice patches, the seven-year-old kamikazes with helmets and no poles bombing down the mountain.
And then do it in the dark.
I had left Charlottesville for Wintergreen Ski Resort at around 1 p.m. on Saturday with my friend Mark. There was plenty of daylight remaining, and the snow was falling steadily.
I was so excited. This was going to be the first time in six years that I would repeatedly and willingly throw myself down a mountain.
On the way up to Wintergreen, I had my first experience driving in a snowstorm on roads full of frightened Virginians.
Imagine a parade of powerful V12 pickup trucks and SUVs with four-wheel drive and names like RAM, TUNDRA and TRAILBLAZER -- going three miles an hour down Interstate 64. Their drivers -- doubtlessly named Hank, Jebediah, Buck, Cletus, etc. -- were huddled over the steering wheels like frightened 80-year-old ladies.
Passing them with my New York plates was the equivalent of automotive mooning.
Mark seemed unfazed, and actually fell asleep in the passenger seat, which I think is the ultimate compliment a driver can receive. He felt so comfortable with me at the wheel that he could drift off without a care in the world.
That's when I would hit 85 miles per hour.
Mark's family owns a condo at the top of the mountain, and when we got up to Wintergreen, we started suiting up after lunch. His mom had skied in the morning and was now sitting in front of the fire knitting a scarf. She had also baked cookies. His dad, a dentist during the week, turns into a snowboard instructor on the weekends. He was out on the slopes.
I didn't see any brochures for Wintergreen Ski Resort, but I am sure there are pictures of Mark's family in them.
We drove down to the lodge so that I could rent equipment. My father had let me come back to school with his old ski boots, but insisted on keeping his skis at home. Every year he says he plans on going skiing, and this year is no exception. When I asked him if I could take his skis, he was indignant.
"But I'll probably go skiing this year," he whined.
As far as I am concerned, if my father does not go skiing this year (and he definitely won't), he owes me $87, which was the exact cost of a lift ticket with ski rentals.
The girl at the rental counter asked me what kind of skis I wanted.
"I have no idea," I responded thoughtfully.
"I'll just give you [some kind of technical Swedish sounding word that I don't remember]. Is that okay?"
"I'm sorry, was that Swedish you were just speaking?" I asked, perplexed. "Miss, I really don't know anything about this kind of thing. Just make it so that I don't die."
She smiled politely and gave me my skis.
A short while later, I was on my first trip down the mountain. Good skiers tend to keep their skis parallel and as close together as possible. They lean forward and make tight, graceful turns that use up little energy in their calves. Soft arcs of snow kick up behind them as they glide along, seemingly without effort.
I had pictured myself flying down the slopes like an expert, wowing all the snow bunnies with my prowess. Everyone would think I was born in the Alps and that my name was Sven or Hermann.
As it turned out, after six years, I was a bit rusty.
My skis stretched to four feet apart, and my turns were long and sweeping. I had no control over how fast I was going and was in constant fear of getting hit by any number of the small, fearless children that plague every ski slope.
Still, after a few runs, I started to get the hang of it again.
Mark would make it down the slope about an hour before me every time. He would wait patiently for me to come barreling down the mountain, to await my thrilling stories about how I cheated death on the last run.
"THEN THERE WAS A MOGUL. AND GUESS WHAT, GUESS WHAT."
"What," he would groan impatiently, knowing what the answer would be.
"I DIDN'T FALL!"
Mark would tell me his own skiing stories as we rode the lift back to the summit, often pointing out where they actually happened.
"Yeah, see that spot right there? I dislocated my left shoulder three times in that same spot. And over there? That's where I went blind after my second concussion. It was pretty cool."
Mark has had three concussions in all. He's a lot like Troy Aikman, except with fewer Super Bowl rings and more nervous twitches.
He wears a helmet when he skis now.
We ate dinner with his parents and then went back out for a few more hours. I had just fallen for the third time on a trail called Eagle Swoop and was ready to call it a night. I met Mark at the bottom of the hill, covered in snow.
"Let's make this the last run," I said to him.
A shadow fell upon his face.
"You can't do that, dude. You can't call last run."
He put whispered emphasis on the last two words. I chuckled nervously and we stayed silent for a few minutes. Just before the top, he leaned over to me.
"I was serious. If you call last run, you always get hurt. So this is not the last run."
"Would you stop whispering that. It's creeping me out, Mark," I said. "Fine. It's not the last run."
"Good," he said.
Of course, it turned out to be the last run. Through the grace of the Ski Gods, neither of us died.
In all, I had a blast. It was a great time getting away from Charlottesville for the day, even if the snow didn't stick around as long as I had hoped it would. We got into the car and headed back home. Mark drifted off.
I started hitting the gas a little harder.
A-J Aronstein can reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com.
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