The Great Alpventure: Part 3- The Ski Blog

Here it is. The one you’ve all been waiting for. Without further ado, I present to you: The Story of What Happened When Emily Went Skiing.

First of all, the town where we went skiing was called Grindelwald, which was very exciting to my soul, because there is an obscure Harry Potter character of the same name. We were taken there by the Credo staff, and the guy who went with us beginners was a 79-year old Swiss man named George who was in better shape than 19-year old me. Seriously, it was incredible how spry this man was. Must be the mountain air.

We had to rent our ski gear from the little shop at the base of the mountain, and of course, all magic comes at a price, and it wasn’t until I was literally sitting with my foot wedged halfway into a ski boot which I had agreed to rent that I found out I would be forking over a grand total of $130 for this little excursion. Still, no matter. If I was to discover a hidden talent for alpine sports it would all be worth it.

The first challenge we had to undertake was trying to walk across the parking lot in our ski boots. I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted to walk without moving your ankles whatsoever, but if you have, that’s dumb and you should stop because you look like an idiot. However, it is acceptable at a ski slope because wearing ski boots reduces ankle mobility to zero. Going down stairs was the worst. I looked like a 90-year old woman with a hip problem.

The next phase of the Epic Ski Quest was the ski lift. I was really good at that, mostly because it involved sitting still in a cable car, and I am excellent at sitting still. We had to stow our skis in the little holder thing attached to the outside of the cable car, and then get inside, all while the car was moving, which was quite exciting. Yes, the car was moving at a snail-ular pace, but that is neither here nor there.

The ride to the top of the mountain took about 30 minutes and was very nice and scenic. We watched people whiz down the slope below and thought of what fun it would be when we would soon be joining them, having gotten the hang of skiing after a mere 5-minute explanation of how it was done. Or something like that.

We did get ski instruction, but it took a little longer than 5 minutes. Who knew skiing wasn’t something you could just wing? Anyway, George had to teach us to walk in the skis, and how to slow down and speed up, and how to turn. All this was done on flat or very slightly inclined ground, and after we mastered the basics (well, I thought I had mastered the basics, but I may have just gotten so good at living out my “fake it ‘till you make it” philosophy that I fooled myself) we were at last ready for: The Bunny Slope. One by one, we skied down the tiny hill. There will be no prizes given out for guessing who wiped out first. I shall claim that it was I, and I shall do so proudly. To my credit, I was not the only one who fell, and I did make it about halfway down the hill before falling. Then of course, there was the problem of getting back up. Next time you’re doing your weird walking-without-moving-your-ankles thing, strap some metal blades –which are as long as you are tall- to your feet, and then sit on the ground and try to get back up. Oh, and do this on an incline covered in a powder which the metal strips are specifically design to slide around on. As you struggle, wallow, and eventually give up on ever standing again, you will be experiencing what it is like to try to get up from a fall whilst wearing skis. What I’m trying to say is that, yes, I did have to be rescued. George is a patient, noble man.

It should be noted that I did not fall every time I went down the hill. I may have looked ridiculous every time I went down, with my feet turned inward and legs straddled, so as not to pick up too much speed, but most of my descents were pretty non-disastrous. I at least achieved my main goal, which was not to harm anyone else’s children (you know, the 5 year olds who are zipping down the slope like Olympians). I did crash into Esther once, but she can take it. But for those members of the audience who delight in reading about the more absurd and embarrassing moments in my life, never fear: the best is yet to come.

So logic dictates that if there is a way to go down the bunny slope, there will be a way to go up, right? And in the movies and stuff, there’s usually a ski-lift thing where you sit comfortably in a porch swing type thing attached to a cable and it carries you to the top of the mountain. But we were not on a mountain, we were on a nub, and there was no need for such a device. Instead, there was a contraption which consisted of sturdy plastic disc things attached to a steel cable pulley system thing. Basically, at the bottom of the slope, you would waddle over to this device, align yourself with it, grab hold of one of the discs as it went by, clench it between your thighs (rather awkward) and you would be pulled to the top. All you had to do was stand still.

I still don’t really know what caused my downfall. All I know is, one moment I was riding up the slope on my disc, a few feet behind Esther, who was taking a snapchat of the two of us clearly having the time of our lives. The next moment I was falling. It could have been because I briefly let go of the cable with one hand to wave for the snapchat, or it could have been because God wants my blog to succeed so much that He has started adding cruel twists of fate to my life for the sake of the story. Anyhoo, for whatever reason, I was falling. My initial thought as I resignedly crashed to the earth was, “Oh well, I’ll just have to grab hold of the disc with my hand and let it drag me up the rest of the way on my stomach like the wretched snow-worm that I am.” But no such luck was to be mine. I did not successfully grab hold of the disc, and I was left stranded upon the hill, unable to stand for reasons previously stated. However, I could not remain there until death claimed me (my usual response to all minor life crises) because there were people riding their discs up the hill behind me, and they were fast approaching. I dragged myself to the snowbank so as not to create a pile-up (which, in hindsight, would have been hilarious, and apparently that very thing did happen later in the day, though I was not there to witness it). I sighed in relief. I had made it out of the way, and thus saved the lives of many innocent people. Yet I was still trapped. I couldn’t stand up, which meant that there was a good two minutes where I just sort of sat by the pulley system, clearly marooned and helpless, whilst European after European glided idly by. After a bit, George saw my plight and came to rescue me from my predicament, which he ended up solving simply by removing my skis, which had never occurred to me, but which of course would have been the obvious solution to anyone else who found themselves in that situation. Not that anyone else would find themselves in that situation. My life holds few distinctions, but it is certainly pretty hard to beat in the department of ridiculousness.

After a few more runs on the bunny slope, George took those of our party whom he thought were ready, to go on a more advanced slope. I was not invited to join the A-team. However, Esther was. I told her that she would pick skiing up right away and I would suck. Just call me Nostradamus. So, Esther, George, and another girl headed for what we all thought was going to be the slope right next to the bunny slope –slightly more hillish, but nothing too intense. We were mistaken. The hill in question was a steep, winding path that went all the way to the bottom of the mountain. In the 10 minutes that I stayed to watch before taking the cable car back down, Esther fell 8-12 times (Esther, if I’m exaggerating, feel free to leave hateful comments on my post).

At the bottom of the mountain, me and the other kid who had not made the cut for the Elite Skiers Club waited for about half an hour, until finally Esther came around the corner with a harried look on her face and said, “The others are still up there. I had to be snowmobiled out!” She then described her harrowing journey down the mountain, which involved so many falls that her gloves became soaked with snow, George telling her, “You can do it! I believe in you!” and Esther shedding a few silent tears when he wasn’t looking, because it was pretty evident that she actually couldn’t do it, and was afraid for her life. Eventually, George was forced to accept that she was never going to make it down the mountain in her own strength unless she removed her skis and rolled down like Buttercup in The Princess Bride, and he asked two men on a snowmobile to give her a ride the rest of the way down. This part of the story comforts me, because at least we both had disasters that day. Then I remember that Esther’s disaster was on an actual mountain, and mine was on a slightly slanted mound, and my consolation vanishes like so much vapour.

And so, thus ends The Ski Blog. I might have had to spend over $100 to confirm the already well-validated theory that I am bad at everything, but I can say I’ve been skiing in the Alps, and that’s pretty amazing, even if it was just a bunny slope. And I was dreadful at it. But, then again, who are we kidding? If my skiing had been any less of a catastrophe than it turned out to be, we would all have been deeply disappointed. Including me. “What do we live for but to make sport for our neighbours and laugh at them in our turn”, eh?