How to not ski. For Dummies.

Everyone has seen, and perhaps secretly opened one of the many "How to..for Dummies" books. Nobody likes to admit they don't know something, but even more so nobody likes to admit they're actually reading a book that calls them mentally challenged and then goes on to enlighten them on whatever subject. However, often the best encouragement to try new things is simply the knowledge that you are not the only idiot out there. So really, there should be books on "How to not...for Dummies". If you truly are not mentally challenged, process of elimination paired with common sense will teach you how something ought to be done.




Take skiing for example. If my crazy..scratch that..insane, best friend hadn't dragged me up the hill, claiming that she did this all the time herself, I never would have tried it. Most people learn how to ski with actual downhill skis, on manicured hills, and during normal daylight hours. They might even have tall, dark and handsome ski instructors with reflexes that set your mind at ease about falling anywhere near their arms reach.



These people, after spending an afternoon halfway successfully skiing, but more often then not, falling into the arms of good looking and obviously well muscled ski instructors, would most likely return to whatever multimillion dollar lodge they were housed in for the weekend, unbruised, and sip hot chocolate while contemplating the following days run.



However, like the majority of Alaskans, I am unconventional. My best friend taught me how to ski, in the middle of the night, with cross country skis, and on an icy cliff that also doubled as the main road. On the way up the back side of the hill, through snowy trails, I was congratulating myself on my quickly learned familiarity with skiing. What I had yet to learn, was that skiing, much like crocodile hunting, is not an art, it is a gamble. Anyone taking up either of these hobbies ought to be thoroughly insured.



When we reached the top of the hill, I'm sure the view would have been breathtaking..if I could see. However, generally in Alaska, in winter, at night, it is dark; and so it was. My friend assured me that this run was safe, and she took off down the hill. As she left, I could hear the vibrations of he skis on the washboard ice. And, of course, the only red flag that went up in my mind was that my hands were cold. I took off down the hill.



I actually made it to the first curve before my right ski went to the left and my left ski went under my right leg and ended up somewhere around my head, while my ski poles disappeared into various directions of darkness. As I lay staring at the starts, and not just he ones in the night sky, I realized that perhaps I was cut out for less dangerous sports..like playing the piano. And I still had half the hill, one more turn and an intense drop to go.



I made it down to the second turn by squatting above my skis and leaning all my weight on my poles to keep from going more than 5 miles an hour. By this time my skiing "buddy" was at the bottom of the cliff, tapping her foot, and wondering if I had been eaten by a moose. As I stood at the top of the steepest part of the hill, having actually managed to come to a complete stop, I considered my options.



One, I could take off my skis, and walk down the hill, but that would take a serious toll on my pride, and a lot of hot water, as my bindings were iced quite firmly shut. Two, I could try to go back up the hill the way I had just come, and head down the significantly less daunting other side of the hill. I tried taking a step to turn around, but was once again greeted with a great view of the night sky. End of options.



What was really freaking me out about just going for it was the fast that I couldn't see. There's a few things in life where clear vision is important. Such as icy death traps, anything involving crocodiles, and choosing a mate. Just at I was engrossed in those thoughts, fate seemed to shine a ray of light into my life, literally. A car turned onto the road ahead. Momentarily able to see the road beneath my feet, I shoved off. It was like rollarblading on a crisco covered mirror.



Fate stopped being helpful two seconds later and the car turned off the road. I was plunged into darkness but couldn't have stopped then to save my life, so I merely focused on not being the first airborne gymnast at -20. The only way I knew my feet were still touching the ground was by the vibration from the washboard ice rattling its way up my bones to my teeth. The wind rushed by my ears, figid and numbing, deafening and breath stealing.



Then, it was over. I was face to face with my..uh..best friend, at the bottom of the hill. Well, mostly face to face, hers was a little farther down since she was on the ground laughing. But I learned a valuable lesson: Don't do things just because people tell you to. You will end up with countless gym memberships, or the leader of a bunch of girl scouts, or the owner of a hot air balloon, or hurtling down hills at warp speed.

This is how I like to ski ---------->