The whistling sound of doom

I don't have a good track record when it comes to skiing. Of course, as most seasoned skiers will be quick to point out, this wasn't real skiing since it took place on the dry sky slope in Edinburgh and anyone who's skied on real snow will tell you that this amounts to ten different types of heresy.

I've related this story many times over the years, so my apologies if you've heard it before, and since it all happened to me half a lifetime ago, you'll need to recognise the possibility that it may have grown in the telling, although I think I'm still able to relate an accurate account of events.

There were various trips to Hillend, the dry ski slope, in my youth, mostly with the Scouts (yes, I was a boy scout. Not a very good one at that, but that's a story for another time). It's fair to say that I wasn't very good at skiing there. My attempts to steer myself in any sort of direction usually ended with my accelerating straight down the slope whilst I frantically waved (or flailed if you prefer) my arms in an effort to ward away the unwary at whom I was speeding towards with ever increasing velocity. Each trip invariably ended with me in a non-vertical position with limbs strewn akimbo. If I was particularly unlucky I'd have also taken down several others skiers along the way.

After a few repetitions of this (and some angry glances from fallen skiers), I decided to confine myself to the far gentler and shorter slope for beginners, just off to the side from the main slope. This turned out to be something of a mistake. The beginners slope was situated next to a set of concrete stairs. You can begin to sense the inevitability of what happened next from the mere mention of the concrete stairs, can't you? It started out well enough, in that I was heading downwards at a not unreasonably velocity, but then, in the twinkling of an eye, it all began to go horribly wrong as I lost control of where I was going and began to veer towards the edge of the slope. Straight towards the concrete steps. Had I any sort of control, I would have reached the steps and stopped, by alas, my in attempt to turn away from the steps I ended up cunningly positioning myself to face down the slope again, so that by the time I reached the steps not only did I not stop but I was aimed to continue skiing down the steps. Which I did.

How long I might have carried on down the steps I'm not sure, but since my ability to steer on the steps was no greater than my ability to steer on the slope, I eventually swerved off the steps... onto a patch of mud. I can relate from experience that mud does not make for a good ski surface. Witness the fact that my skis ceased motion as soon as they met mud. Momentum, on the other hand, ensured that I kept going. Like a tree felled, I toppled forward, face first into the mud. It was an ignominious ending and an experience I can't say I was desperate to repeat.

But cut forward 15 or so years later, when the memory is more amusing than hurtful, and the notion of trying to ski again didn't seem quite so outlandish, especially when the landscape out here is covered in snowdrifts as far as the eye can see.

So we headed out to the finest ski slope that Minnesota has to offer (which I was impressed by, although I think it was possibly a little underwhelming for the more experienced skiers). I can fortunately relate that the seasoned (parsley, thyme?) skiers are right. Real snow is both much more fun, and far less painful. Initially it all seemed a little too familiar (speeding out of control, arms flailing etc), but I eventually got the hang of it a little. There was a considerable amount of falling over involved, but I did start to get that under control (I recognised that the higher the pitch of the wind whistling, the nearer I was to falling over). Of course, I then had to deal with the consequences of not falling over, chiefly spinning around so that I was facing up the slope rather than down and starting to slide backwards as I frantically clawed the snow with my gloves in order to prevent what in the years to come would no doubt make for another terribly amusing anecdote, but in the shorter term would probably require hospitalisation.

Still, all's well that ends well. Much fun was had by all and I managed to escape serious injury (hurrah!). I'm not completely out of the woods yet though, since we'll be heading to Wisconsin this weekend for a further bout of skiing.

But what can possibly go wrong?