I’ll never forget my first ski trip. I was excited: the thrill of the hill, the need for speed, man against the mountain. I was ready. I’m athletic, I’m coordinated, and I’m a macho man. If you are a first-time skier and you are feeling a little macho, allow me to give you some helpful hints as you attempt to conquer the mountains of God.
First, get the right equipment.
Ski outfits cost about the same as a compact car. To save money, you can rent all this stuff by paying car rental prices, but you must sign a document that clearly states this activity could possibly kill you and they are not responsible.
Dressing takes at least one hour to put everything on and two hours to get off (because you’re really tired). The outfit must have four layers to make you feel like a giant radioactive spaceman. Go to the bathroom before you start putting on your equipment — because if you go more than once during the day, you will have no time for skiing.
Second, take ski lessons.
DO NOT skip this step. Any sport with an ambulance parked at the bottom of the hill is to be respected.
The skis do not come with air bags. Without a lesson, you have the life expectancy of a fruit fly. With a good lesson, you have the hope of living as long as, say, a goldfish.
Learn how to stop. Use the end of your skies, not the end of your body.
The chair lift does not stop. At this point I started to realize that skiing may be a little harder than I had thought. The chair lift is like a ride at Disney World. You have to jump on, then dangle in the air, and about the time you relax you realize that it doesn’t stop to let you off. You have two choices: you can jump off and fall, or jump off and get hit in the back of the head by the chair. I jumped and fell, and then pretended to look for my contact lens to preserve my dignity.
Third, learn the laws of skiing gravity.
Your instructor has a hidden anti-gravity drive. She doesn’t fall.
Little kids whiz by, too dumb to know about gravity. Makes you want to trip them. You will spend most of the day trying to defy the force that pulls you downward — your skis down the hill, and your body (fanny and face mostly) down in the snow.
I survived the day by staying on the Peter Rabbit Hill. I was mad at my equipment. My toes hurt. I questioned God and why He made mountains. I told myself I would never ski again. I quit! The next day I was sore. Penny said, “I can’t believe you’re sore. You jog two miles every day.” I told her I hardly ever fall down or hit trees when I jog. I’m still not very good. Skiing remains a contact sport for me. I warm up every year by running up a flight of stairs and coming back down without using my legs. It’s a great bun warmer for the kind of hot dog skiing I do.
A few years ago, some buddies talked me into going up on top of the mountain. Supposedly there was an easy way down, but when we got there the run was closed and we had to get on a “black run” — which is color-coded to mean “Today you will meet God.”
Actually the name of the run was Pall Bearers Peak. Ski people ought to take a course in public relations. Would a cereal sell if it was named Death? No, they call it Life. It would never work to say, “Mikey, come try a spoonful of death.” The ski runs should be named something like Marshmallow Satin or Easy Comfort.
Anyway, I looked down this mountain. Way down! I was telling God I would be a foreign missionary when I heard the voice of a friend. Tim said, “Charles, just follow me.” So I did. Tim is an expert skier. He knew the best way down and was willing to stay with me. On the slope of life, it is great to have someone to follow.