Lessons Learned on Skiing Adventure

Recently the Stroupe family journeyed to Northern Virginia for a weekend ski trip. Mom had sense enough to camp in the warmth of the ski lodge and observe as the rest of us plucked icicles from our nose hairs outside. Once you get used to frozen eyelids and Star Wars-looking snow boots, the ride on the chairlift is peaceful and stress-free. On that first trip up the mountain, I sucked in the oxygen, gazed at the gorgeous view, and allowed myself to soak up the moment. Suddenly and without warning, my journey came to an abrupt halt and I tumbled head over heels down a ramp- the one designed for skiers to glide off when they exit the chairlift. Humiliation had ensued and wouldn’t disappear anytime soon. Both Stroupe boys whistled down the side of the mountain as their dad rolled, snowplowed, and crashed his way through traffic to the bottom. I improved greatly as the day proceeded but my primary nemesis remained. That nemesis was the chairlift. Fellow skiers began to line up at the top of the intermediate hill just to watch me exit. More often than not, I did not disappoint. Several times the operators had to halt the entire lift so they could scrape me off the ground and get me out of the way. Ski lift chairlifts aren’t designed to stop. They just keep going round and round and round. They only halt when buffoons like me wipe out attempting to depart from them. I experienced this no-stop phenomenon late in the afternoon on that fateful trip. My boys and I were able to enjoy a ride on a four-man lift to the top of the highest hill- the expert slope. As we exited the lift, I noticed my youngest son struggling to keep his balance so I reached over to try and help. Big mistake. Immediately I lost my own balance and ended up propped on my knees with my knit cap down over my face. It all happened kinda fast but the next thing I felt was an enormous punch to the back of my head. Within moments three ski patrol dudes surrounded me, expressing their deep concern for my personal health. When I asked what had happened, one of them informed me that the ski lift had whacked me on its way around the semi-circle. He asked if I was okay and I replied, “No, but I’m doing my best to play it off.” Proud that my hard head had survived such a vicious attack, I rose to my feet, nodded to the onlooking crowd, and proceeded to belly flop all the way down the expert mountain- a slope I had no business attempting to negotiate in the first place. The skiers riding the lift laughed and were visibly entertained by my flailing. When I ski, I’m entertaining the lift riders. And when I ride the lift, I’m entertaining the skiers. Ironic. There’s more- like the time I exited the chairlift and a man with a protruding ski pole nearly poked out my left eye- but I’ll spare you the details. In actuality, we had a great time and may hit the slopes again at some point in the future. And if we do, it will probably be in Northern Virginia again- where nobody knows me.