My Narrative (or Pep Fujas is the Man)

It’s freezing cold and I’m dizzy. My eyes are closed and have been for some time, but I know I'm not in my bed. I become aware of my body without the assistance of my eyes, who seem to fight me every time I try to force them open. I lift my arm to feel my surroundings; as soon as I do, pain shoots through my back. It’s an icy, deep pain. The kind of pain that signals to the mind that the body has acquired more serious damage than just a cut or a bruise. I determine that I should avoid moving as much as possible. I then notice that I’m sitting up against something, something big, hard, and round, with my head fallen against my right shoulder. Through my frozen nostrils, the crisp air carries the scent of pine. Cold presses itself against my cheeks. I love low temperatures; they make the whole world seem so clean. No, not just clean, cool weather simply seems more honest than its replacement in the summer, offering me a clearer mind through its serenity. Heat, on the other hand, seems to fog my thinking and steal away all of my energy. Dropping my hand to my side, I feel it sink into the earth. On second thought, it can’t be earth, it’s too soft. Not to mention that I wouldn't be wearing gloves, it must be snow. Suddenly, I know where I am without having to open my eyes: Winter Park ski resort.

I can remember the whole day. I only have trouble reorienting myself as to exactly where I am; however, it's not like after a concussion, more like knowing where I am is unimportant. Therefore, I am unable to figure out what has happened in the last few minutes. With a significant amount of effort, I finally open my eyes. Even through the tinted lenses of my goggles, the light forces me to squint, but I can still see enough to confirm my theory. I am at Winter Park resort, or more specifically, the mountain next to Winter Park, named Mary Jane. These mountains have always brought me an escape from the rest of my life and an opportunity to focus solely on something I loved, which made me feel much more alive. The pure white snow covers the branches in all the trees surrounding me, while the snow on the ground is untouched, save for my two trails etched into the pristine powder. They don’t appear to be as perfectly parallel as they usually do, I must have panicked and my form suffered. I’m not on a patrolled ski run, they’re too crowded, and I don’t need people getting in the way. Instead, I find myself in the middle of the woods. This news is of little concern, finding my way out shouldn’t be any trouble at all; if I go down long enough I’ll find another trail.

I finally venture a glance down at myself, an ordeal I knew I would have to go through eventually. I know I won’t like what I see, but it has to be done. I still have one ski on my left foot, but the right foot has been released from its binding. Tentatively, I raise my right ski pole to release my left boot from its binding. The silver metal is perfectly straight until about half the distance to the spiked end when it takes an unwelcome, yet committed left turn, cracking the paint on the opposite side. This isn’t the first time I’ve ruined a pole, but it always is a little disappointing knowing that I’ll have to go buy a new one again. I abandon my attempt, frustrated by the additional difficulty of trying to pop out of my bindings without a straight pole, and look to my right to find my missing ski. The snow seems so undisturbed; I can’t imagine the ski could be hidden beneath. My back is against a large pine tree that has seemed to clear away the lower branches so that I would have a place to sit. I’m guessing that it didn’t make the room willingly. Then it dawns on me, I’m facing uphill.

With this new realization I take a quick turn to my left. I catch my breath as the pain rushes over me again. This time, there seems to be a deep bruise on my right thigh echoing the pain so that my lower body could be included. I pinch my eyes closed until the pain releases me and then open my eyes to scan the area to my left. There’s a lot more to see on that side. The snow has been torn up and there is no pattern to the trail cutting through the snow. A thin tree, the trunk only 3 inches in diameter, has collapsed into the trail. My usual perfectly parallel ski tracks are so elegant compared to this ruin. The fallen tree in the middle of the trail must be newer than the tracks, because they continue underneath the thin trunk.

The tree jogs my memory of the crash. I recognize it and close my eyes to review the images in my mind.

I saw Russell’s black hoodie disappear into the dense green woods. This is a common sight, and I followed him into the darkness. This is where we find true thrills. We have skied so much that the cleared public runs no longer present a challenge to us. The trees, on the other hand, require quicker reflexes and tighter turning, but offer a greater adrenaline rush. It was much more dangerous, but the feeling of the fresh snow rushing against me was irreplaceable. I broke off from Russell’s trail I had been following, and begin to find my own way through the forest. As my speed increased, so did my excitement. I was certain that this will lead to a situation that will keep me on my toes. Sure enough, as I soon as I asked, the mountain offered. The trees forced me into a quick right turn followed by an immediate left. Unable to slow down, I tore through the right turn and forced my skis below me into the air to spin to a left turn. With my speed, this was not going to be enough.

I twisted my hips hard to turn the skis because the edges were not enough, hoping this might do the job. Then I noticed my right ski was on the wrong side of one of the smaller trees. I started to gasp, but I didn’t have the time to complete it before my leg made contact. With a deafening crack, the tree trunk snapped and I was spinning, reaching out to find something on which to focus. My eyes caught onto a tree with a sickly scar running vertically down its trunk, and I was able to orient myself towards it. With another twinge of terror, I realized that I was moving backwards. I turned my head to spot my nearest obstacle. Unlike the tree that had broken, the one quickly approaching me was a fully grown adult, and would not give way so easily. I had no time to react, even if I did I only had one ski still attached, and I slammed into the trunk, crumpling into a small ball at its feet.

Opening my eyes, I laugh bitterly as hind sight passes the test with flying colors again, it earned its twenty-twenty rating. That was too close. Too many people have been killed skiing into trees, and currently I’m not doing so well either. Were I just able to stay with Russell I would be fine. Of course, Russell! My mind latches onto the thought of my possible rescuer. Perhaps if he can just find me then he can help me stand, and from there I may be able to make it down to the base of the mountain. But where is he?

My eyes start to fight me with a renewed effort to stay closed. There seems to be no reason to continue to deny them their will. A little rest should give me the energy that I need to continue skiing for the rest of the day, not that I can do anything else anyways.

* * *

Someone calls my name. I ignore it, they can wait. The voice repeats my name, this time closer. Why can’t he just leave me alone for a little bit longer? I jump as something pokes me pretty hard in the arm. I jolt awake and look to see Russell’s panicked face, ignoring my back's discontentment with my sudden movement.

“What?”

“I thought you were dead!” Russell’s frame releases its tension somewhat. “I turned this corner and saw all this mess and saw you not moving against a tree! I thought I was gonna have to go home and tell your Mom that you died! That would bite!”

“Oh yeah, I found myself . . . Hey, what the heck took you so long?” I exclaim.

“I had a pretty good fall back up there a little while ago. I fell into some powder, but there was a rock beneath the top layer and I hit my head pretty good against it.” I notice for the first time that there is a new crack through his goggles. I always ski with a helmet, but Russell never does. He always has on a somewhat thick hat which leaves his head exposed to an injury like the one he had just experienced, or worse. Russell’s black hoodie still holds clumps of snow, and is slightly darker where the snow has melted.

“Are you ok?”

“I think I was unconscious for a little while, but I’ll be fine. Let’s go man, quit messing around,” Russell says, clearly eager to keep skiing.

“I can’t move. I tried to get up a little while ago. Give me a hand.” Russell reaches out and I grab it. He pulls me up quickly, but not very gently. Immediately I think I’m going to fall back against the tree. My eyes lose their focus as the anguish clouds up my vision, and my right leg struggles to hold my weight. “I lost my ski to your right, can you grab it.” As he does, I feel the need to fill the silence, which is so rare between us. “A lot of good the buddy system did us,” I say. “There should probably be a footnote explaining that this system only works if at least one of the two of you is fully functional.” We laugh for a little while, making light of the situation we found ourselves in, and the one we narrowly avoided. Russell hands me the ski and helps me pop myself in.

Once I’m again bound to my skis, Russell lets me go and skis off slowly ahead of me as I try to control myself while maneuvering through the trees. At first the pain is overwhelming, but as a smile returns to my face, I am able to tune out the blaring pain echoing through my body. I am able to ski to the bottom of the mountain, uncomfortably, but successfully.

Upon reaching the ski patrol at the bottom of the mountain, I wait for the next available nurse, thinking back on my day. I’m not sure why it excited me so much to be put in a dangerous setting. Now as the pain begins to return it begins to truly set in how lucky I was. The thought of how close I was to death scares me. It’s an irrational fear, sure, but it is real. The fear of the unknown, or rather the fear of what could have been, is harder to conquer than something tangible because I can’t escape the fictional situations that my mind can create.

With the fear present, I can't help but question my decisions. What led me to think that pushing my luck was a good idea? Did I care for my life at all? What was I trying to prove? I may already know the answers to my questions, but I don’t like the way that they sound, so I continue to probe with rephrased queries until the nurse shepherds me into the doctor’s office where they begin to poke me trying to find where it hurts. An easy task since everywhere they try hurts. Everywhere except my head. Fortunately I wear that helmet every time I ski, even if it is mostly to humor my parents, because this is the first time that the helmet has truly protected me, has kept me alive. I've never been so grateful for my helmet, or so grateful to be alive at all.

* * *

It has been a little over a month since I fractured a low vertebra in my spine and I am finally able to return to the mountain. I avoid skiing in the trees, whether out of fear or because I have become a smarter skier, I can’t tell.