The term ski comes from the ancient Scandinavian language Old Norse. It was skio back then, thousands of years ago. It meant split pieces of wood as well as firewood – the irony? After hurling down mountains on pieces of split wood, taking a few falls on the way, firewood is not far from a banged up skiers thinking; unfortunately I know how that works.
In Denmark, only cross-country skiing is a possibility as Denmark is flat as a pancake. One of the two highest points is Himmelbjerget; its majestic peak reaching an astonishing height of 482 feet – isn’t Magic Mountain in Disneyland higher? Here’s another irony: Himmelbjerget means heaven (or sky) mountain. Those Danes have such a great sense of humor, don’t you think?
Back in the 1970s BS (Before Snowboarding) skiing was still for the rich people, as it involved trips to foreign lands with mountains taller than 482 feet and some serious snow. I lived just outside Copenhagen with a girlfriend from California, Andee. She had a colorful personality, lots of energy and wanted to have fun. At times I struggled keeping up with her – yeah, I know ME?
Andee suggested a ski-trip and I no doubt said: whatever. As I, Andee had never been skiing. We bought tickets to a ski resort in France called Aime La Plagne. And now it was time to outfit ourselves with ski equipment. Both of us went overboard considering our beginner status. I got top-of-the-line Rossignol skis and bindings, fancy ski-clothes, cool high tech ski boots and smart goggles – everything and then some.
It was a two weeks vacation, so we packed accordingly and then some. After a few hours flight we landed in Geneva (Switzerland) and got on the resort bus waiting for us. 3-4 hours on curvy roads, we entered France and arrived late afternoon at La Plagne. It was a fantastic resort sitting on top of a mountain ridge – probably still does.
We checked into the hotel, had dinner and couldn’t wait to get up the next morning and do that skiing thing. Oh, Andee signed up for beginner lessons; I didn’t think I needed to sign up for any ski lessons; I mean, the word bunny-slope was involved, duh. Well, that was a huge mistake.
After struggling getting into all this new stuff, skis and all, I was on the snow early the next morning. I looked smashing – as long as I didn’t move. Never been on skis, I quickly realized that trying to glide on those split pieces of wood and look cool in the process was impossible; so I stopped often and pretended to admire the view – and then I stumbled a few meters more.
I ended up on the edge of a downhill; the small kids made it look so easy. I figured, that on the way down, I’d pick up that turning left and right thing and perhaps also learn how to brake and stop. Small kids could do it, so what was the big deal?
I looked at the bottom of this mountain (it seemed). “Piece of ice cream-cake”, I thought. Took a deep breath and pushed off. As speed quickly picked up from that point on, I swiftly made a mental note to sign up for ski-lessons as soon as possible – if this didn’t kill me first, which it seemed to be in the process off.
The skis were flying from one side to another, poles all over the place, knees twisting and turning, my body being hammered, utter fear in my eyes while constantly screaming “MOR” (Danish for mother). The speed kept picking up and up and everything turned into a blur. I made another note: learn how to stop.
It was explained to me later, that I had come down in a straight line (yeah, duh…) and that my screams had attracted quite an audience from the lift line at the bottom of this huge mountain (they actually called it a practice-hill, as in advanced bunny-slope). What was left of my body had ended up a few feet from some orange netting; the skis were found in different time-zones and the poles far from anywhere. It had looked so bad that I was pretty much pronounced dead halfway down.
After some help getting my stuff back together, I headed straight into the ski-instructors office and demanded one week of private lessons. I was assigned to Pierre and we met up early the next morning.
With Pierre telling me what to do, I quickly picked up on how to ski. He started me up on the bunny-slopes and soon progressed to more difficult runs – 4 hours every day. After each day’s lesson, I continued skiing till the slopes closed down at sunset; I was seriously bitten. On the third day we went all the way to the top of the mountain and ran a few of the lesser black diamonds and then it was time for the Suicide Run (they should at least have called it that).
I was hesitant, but Pierre said: “Just follow me and do what I do, okay?” And I did – everything he did; it felt fantastic. The next few days we did the Suicide Run again and again, faster and faster – and I experienced how fantastic skiing could be.
“Are you having fun?” Pierre asked, and I was. So he told me I was on my own - I had graduated and felt great.
The next morning I was the first in line to go to the top. I was so ready and looked down on the perfectly groomed Suicide Run. But then I realized how bloody steep it was - without Pierre. I looked again and then decided that there was no way in Hell I was going to ski that thing alone, no way. So I got back on the lift and took a ride down to the bottom. I thought I was good, but obviously not that good. I spent the rest of the vacation skiing slopes less death-threatening, but still had a lot of fun – I was hooked.
Next year Andee and I decided to do it again. We went to Courchevel in the French Alps for two weeks. This place is considered “one of the best ski-resorts in Europe – if you can afford it”. The weather was fantastic with sunny days and snowy nights; absolutely perfect conditions.
The third evening we had dinner with a couple from our hotel. After a bit too much French wine we walked around the village and found a skating-rink, so we went skating. I used to be rather good on skates, jumps and all – but forgot it was a million years ago since I last strapped a pair of skates on.
But it all came back fast and I felt comfortable (but still slightly intoxicated). So I was going to show them a few jumps – and that’s when I fell hard on my shoulder and damaged one of my collarbones – and no more skiing on that vacation with 11 days left; I was pissed. Learned a lot about mixed drinks as many other casualties gathered daily in a great bar with a beautiful view of the slopes and the surrounding mountains – skiing would have been better; but I know what a Grasshopper is – a lot…
I continued skiing here in California. Always running fast, never really enjoying the views, kind of skiing – just fast. One time my wife and I met up with some friends for skiing in Beaver Creek, Colorado. We skied in a group of six, down really nice slopes and perfect conditions. Then we were heading into a softer right turn (I can still see it) and everybody in front of me was hugging the corner. The slope was very wide, so lots of space to the left. So I swung out and into the middle to pick up more speed through the turn. And that’s when I saw this huge icy spot. I dug in as hard as I could, but that didn’t help and death was yet again a possibility. Did it hurt? YES, but more so mentally than physically.
I did ski in the years after that crash, had a lot of fun with my wife and kids in the snow, but I started to feel hesitant and cautious about my skiing and some years back I stopped all together. But what I ride it had been. Do I miss it? Surprisingly not, but I highly recommend it – I really do and snowboarding too.
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