Brinton and I stopped at the top of the trail. The wind whispered through the ear vents of my ski helmet. My feet were slightly numb.
“That looks super icy,” I said, thinking about how much it would hurt if I fell on the hardpacked snow. “It’s not even fun when it’s icy like this,” I whined.
“Oh come on. It’s fun if you’re going fast!” Brinton’s eyes twinkled.
This was the difference between us in a nutshell. I like skiing soft bumpy trails, the woods, trails with obstacles. Brinton likes steep, groomed, and fast.
Brinton’s skis scraped across a patch of ice, and whoosh, off he went.
A momentary wave of annoyance washed over me, then I too went whoosh across the ice.
I took the first few turns cautiously. I let my skis slide a little, so that I wouldn’t pick up too much speed. It’s fun if you’re going fast.
I headed into my fourth turn and put a little more weight on my downhill edge. With this, I was pulled little faster down the trail. Another turn, another, faster, faster…
Suddenly, I spun around, my left ski popped off, and I was on the ground, flying down the icy trail on my stomach, my ejected ski left behind. I used my arms as brakes, my whole body dragging across the steep and slippery ice.
Finally I came to a stop.
Amazingly, nothing was hurt. I was out of breath. I was shaky. But unhurt.
Brinton was long gone. I was alone. No one saw.
I climbed back up the trail. Popped my ski back on.
I looked down what was left of the steep and icy trail.
This time, I took my turns wide and slow. It is not always more fun if you’re going fast.
* That is not my husband, nor I in those photos. Credit to skimaven.com (above), and Outside Online (below).