Scene of the Accident

I took the Boy and one of his friends skiing today at Silver Fir, the place where I tore my ACL a little more than a year ago. I could have hooked the Boy up with a different friend whose dad was driving up, but the Boy had made plans with this other friend to ski today. These two boys talked amongst themselves and decided they could sucker one of out of four of their parents to drive them to the mountain. Since the friend’s parents are out of town and Jack was working, I drew the short straw and got to drive. (I didn't know I was the only one drawing a straw.) I could be sitting at home, drinking tea while working on a jigsaw puzzle or finishing a quilt.

Not that I mind sitting in the ski lodge. Skiing is a better use of the Boy’s time and a small investment in his mental health. Otherwise, he’d park his butt on the couch and surf the internet for hours. Skiing is nature and exercise therapy, plus social hour. It gives the teenage boy brain all sort of controlled experiences—the need for speed, taking risks, trying new and dangerous things, plus part of being part of a group of like-minded boys.

The last time I was at Silver Fir, I was dragged down the hill in a sled, unable to stand without my leg buckling. I am sitting in the lodge, looking at the lift line. I see the bench where I tried to stand after the Ski Patrol brought me to the bottom. The bottom of the hill looks steeper than I remember. I had thought the bottom of the Silver Fir run was practically flat. Now it looks too steep.

When we first arrived at the Silver Fir parking lot, I was excited, as excited as I might have been if I were skiing myself. I am glad I wasn’t tempted to bring my own skis today, but being here inspires me to try on my boots when I get home and practice walking around in the heavy footwear.

I am inspired to continue my physical therapy and work on my strength. In some ways, my legs feel stronger now than they have in the past ten years, perhaps since I’ve had kids. I might have had some residual strength in my thighs after Claire Adele was born. Before I had kids, Jack and I would bicycle as a hobby, taking long-distance rides. Two years ago, we brought our bikes to Victoria, British Columbia, and rode from the town up the Galloping Goose Trail to Sook. My legs were in decent shape after that weekend.

Most importantly, this trip to Silver Fir inspires me to try on my ski pants, the scariest part of starting ski season: will they fit, or will I need to go up a size?

I was talking to the boy and his friend that I might be psychologically if not physically ready to ski in the next month. “I won’t do Silver Fir as my first run,” I said. “I’ll probably want to start at Holiday or at West. Maybe I’ll even start on the magic carpet before I ride a lift.” The subtext of this conversation was when I start again, I will not be on the most challenging parts of the mountain. He should be glad I am driving him up now, and gracious when I start skiing again.

“Of course,” said the Boy. He seemed to understand.

The bench by the ski rack was where they brought the sled when I came down the mountain.