02/02/2025
CALL ME A NARCISSIST if you wish. For the next few minutes, you cannot upset me.
Over the past twenty-four years, I have devoted MUCH time to looking for one specific photograph. WHERE IS THAT THING!? I'll take it as a negative. I'll take it as a print. I'll take it as a color slide. I'll take it in any form I could possibly copy, convert to digital and save forever. On Sunday, three evenings ago, I found it! It was buried in a row of sub-folders (?) on a disc I burned at a neighborhood CVS in March of '99.
"When" of the photograph is Feb of '99.
"Where" of the photo is HIGH above Grindelwald, Switzerland.
"Why" of the photo begs an answer as old as the Alps: "Because it is there!" (YOU will have to compose the correct question.)
If I should live for a thousand years, I have NO doubt, THIS will be the finest ski photo ever taken of me in my finest hour. I'm only sorry I don't recall who shot it. Might've been a friend with whom I was skiing or it might've been a random person who was kind enough to take my camera and snap a few shots.
In 1983, my first-ever ski trip took me to Verbier, Switzerland. I paid for a four-day package with the Heidelberg International Ski Club. Skiing began on Thurs., Feb. 3. It was so bad as to defy words. I went up with the group on Thursday. By the time I reached the bottom of the ski run known as la Chassoure, the rest of the group was so far gone that I didn't see 'em again until we regrouped at the hotel in the evening. On the first – and ONLY – run of that day, I fell almost immediately. (I had never taken a lesson.) Along with that fall, I slid for a hundred yards or more, helpless and out of control. After the sliding stopped, I had to wave at someone and ask (yell) to please bring my skis down to me. He did. Moments after stepping back onto both skis, I nudged myself downward again. Second attempt was worse than the first. I slid and slid and slid. One-hundred yards... two-hundred yards... maybe more. Even with all of the sliding, I needed a good forty-five minutes to reach the bottom of the mountain -- the absolute rock bottom. I was in so much pain that I didn't have enough sense to cry. That was the end of my skiing for that day and for the entire week.
During one of those prolonged slides, I remember thinking, "This is gonna hurt!" and, "Basketball. I'm from Indiana, where everyone's favorite sport is basketball. We play basketball on a perfectly dry, flat floor. None of this slipping and sliding...."
For my troubles, I won a case of white wine that the other HISCers didn't have time to attack during the four days. When I left Heidelberg two years later, every drop of that wine was still in the bottles, still under a piece of furniture in my apartment.
Back at the hotel, I showered and somewhat tried to scald myself in water that would be hot enough to take my mind off of the injuries. It worked — I think. For the next three days, Friday, Saturday, half of Sunday, the others went out and up – and down – and had a GREAT time, or so they said. I was left to wonder whether there was any point in ever trying this sport again. Activities on dry, level ground are SO MUCH easier and SO MUCH less painful. This might've been a "one & done" situation for me. By Sunday, Feb. 6, I could only hope my injured and battered body had begun to heal. On Sunday afternoon, all skiers were back on the bottom, in the hotel, showered and ready to board the bus for the ride back to Heidelberg. Bus ride needed about four hours. BIG issues I had to think about were, One, "Will I ever try this again?" and, Two, "I REALLY need to take some lessons in order to figure this out!" Three weeks later I was back on skis, this time with the Kontact Klub, also of Heidelberg. The Klub went to a bunny slope in Sankt Englmar in Germany's Black Forest. This was a VERY Successful experience, brief though it was (Sat/Sun) (already covered in another post). Ditto a third ski trip only three or four weeks after Sankt Englmar, that one to Lauterbrunnen/ Grindelwald, Switzerland. It was also VERY Successful, successful enough to cause me to seriously think about it. Maybe I would be able to learn to ski. MAYBE...
Today's photo somewhat ties a beautiful bow around the whole experience: "Sixteen years ago, Verbier nearly killed me, but today, here I am skiing like an intermediate above Grindelwald yet again." This was some kind of revenge for me: I had conquered the mountain. Needed a LOT of lessons, a LOT of falls, a LOT of practice, but there I was, shredding the powder wherever it happened to fall. Revenge is a dish best served c-c-c-cold – NEVER a degree warmer than 32° F.
SKI HEIL!
