Back when I was a teenager, I was a very avid skier. My parents first put me on skis when I was two years old. I loved to ski. I would go skiing every weekend, rain or shine. I was wild on the slopes. I started from the very top and raced to the bottom. It was great fun. I was very good—advanced in fact. It was my fondest hope to become part of a racing team, but that never happened. I was injured only once—I took a bad fall and dislocated my left shoulder.
I moved to Colorado for the skiing when I was eighteen. I sold my house, and then I was gone. My good friend Tommy (who has since passed away), on Bainbridge Island back home, drove my car down to me after I was all settled in Denver. After Tommy left, I left my apartment, and started driving toward the mountains. I didn’t know where I was going, but I came behind a car with skis on top of it—so I followed it all the way to the mountains. I got off at Loveland Pass Ski Resort—the first one that came along—and the car I was following went on. I was in unfamiliar territory, so I grabbed at the first chance to exit the highway.
I was having a great time. So much fun, in fact, that I didn’t see the ski jump ahead of me. Well, there was nothing I could do, so I jumped. And while I was in mid air, I got the urge for a Peter Paul Almond Joy.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about taking a trip to the Big Island to ski. It’s been so long though, that I’d probably just get all bruised up. We shall see. Stay tuned …