Because I had never been skiing I joined the other newbies in a half-day ski school where we learned to not completely kill ourselves. After a few short hours, we were left to our own devices. I stuck to the green runs, wedging, leaning, and turning just like I had been taught. After a successful first day, I felt fairly confident to take it up a notch the next morning.
A blue run.
We loaded up on the lifts, and once we reached the top of the mountain, we were off!
And man, I was getting braver and faster. And faster. After wedging until my legs were almost crossed, I realized that this wasn't going to end well.
WHERE DID ALL OF THESE PEOPLE COME FROM? The mountain had been empty the day before, and now here I was, doing my best Picabo Street impression at an alarming rate. I was going so fast I was too afraid to fall down as visions of compound fractures and multiple limb amputations raced through my mind. I had no choice but to ride this mother out.
After seeing the lifts on the horizon, I knew that the steepness of the mountain was going to level out, slowing down my momentum. Except that while the steepness declined, my speed stayed steady. Instead of little jumps and other skiers on the slopes, I was now rapidly entering a field of people, totally unaware of the terror that was approaching them.
And then I saw it. Scooter's Ski Shack. Bright green and lined with skis and poles. I couldn't avoid it, and closed my eyes because this wasn't going to end well.
After some kind strangers, eyes filled with tears from laughing so hard, uncovered me from the pile of skis buried me, I limped off like it AIN'T NO THANG.
And promptly spent the majority of the week playing cards in the cabin.