I once went skiing.
          That sentence by the way, tells you where this story is going.  Let me say again; once, I went skiing.
       I was seventeen, raised on the Texas Gulf Coast and nurtured on flat, wide vistas where the clouds were held up by a horizon ringed with rice fields.  I had thrived and been nourished on the rich, humid, sea-tinged air.  But, when a new friend invited me to go to the Colorado Mountains to ski, I eagerly said, "Yes!"
        So, off I went on a long bus trip, crowded elbow to elbow with a boisterous group I barely knew.  I was the stranger included at the last moment to fill an empty seat.
       I found the mountains beautiful.  To my eyes, more accustomed to fields golden green in winter, they were alien and exotic.  The stark colors were white, green, gray and black, creating unfamiliar shadow shapes that made me blink, trying to make sense of the oddity of snow.
        There were just a couple of minor problems.  I couldn't breathe, and I was cold. 
        The air was thinner and dryer than I'd ever encountered.  I felt my face chap, moisture snatched from my skin and lungs as I struggled to breathe.  I was dizzy and it made me feel a little nervous.  I had spent my life living in an area worried about a 20-foot storm surge!  What the heck was I doing a mile above sea level?  Worst of all, I was cold.  I don't like being cold.  In fact, I hate being cold. 
        But, it was beautiful.  As we walked to the dorm housing us, my boots made a satisfying crunch in the snow, like digging into a fresh bowl of corn flakes.
       I was cosseted and comforted, fed warm chocolate and hot soup.  And soon, I was looking forward to my first ski trip.  My newfound friends regaled me with the glories of flying down the mountains.  It was great, they said.  It was wonderful, they said.  I would just love it! they said.

               I especially looked forward to the ski lodge, that romantic, warm place I had seen in movies.  Where I might meet a handsome stranger who would buy me hot chocolate and not ask me how well I skied.   Who would exchange witty stories with me, sing me a song, and tell me how beautiful were my eyes and, ah, I couldn't wait.
                 Instead, reality bit.  The ski lodge was dark, damp with melting snow, and cold.  The pitiful fire burned fitfully and halfheartedly in a pit as charming as an industrial boiler.  The room reminded me of the roller-skating rinks back home with the familiar scents and sounds of popcorn and nachos and canned music filling the air.  Worse, I didn't see any handsome guys.  Heck, with everyone wearing ski clothes, scarves and stocking hats... who could tell which ones were guys?
               Sighing, I got my skis, two long, flat boards with up curved tips like a demented Christmas elf's shoes.  They were as tall as I.  I was shown how to clip them to my booted feet.  After picking me up, they even showed me how I could stand without falling.  After picking me up again, they showed me how to side step carefully to sit down to take them off.  I was taking my first steps towards becoming a skier.  I could do this.  Yeah.  I could do this.
              So, off to the snow we went.  First, I spent an hour or so learning how to turn in my toes, how to walk sideways up hill and how to glide (more or less)down the gently sloping area.  My teacher, a rather optimistic soul I'd met on the bus, seemed satisfied with my progress and pronounced me ready for the Bunny Slope.
              I was ready for the Bunny Slope!  Hey... I could handle the Bunny Slope!  After all, just how bad could anything called the Bunny Slope be?  I resolutely ignored the little part of my brain trying desperately to bring me to my senses, checked my lift ticket to be sure it was still attached to me, and off we went.
               We got to the lift; and, after having overcome the challenge of just how to get on a moving lift chair while immobilized with skis, we were soon gliding over the treetops.  I wonder, are the people who work at the ski resort assigned to the bottom of the ski lift to handle the novice skiers as a punishment, or as a chance for comic relief?  I'll leave you to guess which I provided.  Come to think of it, it might have been a little of both.  Those ski poles are sharp, and those workers aren't as fast on their feet as you might expect them to be.
              What a beautiful trip!  I loved riding up there, treetop level and looking at all the beautiful scenery.  The snow glistened and the mountains were majestic.  I didn't begin to listen to that little annoying voice in my head that said, "Gee, haven't we gone rather a far distance up the mountain?"
              At last we reached the top.  After conquering yet another opportunity to land flat on my face, I was ready to swhoosh down the mountain.  I did think those ski resort people were rather rude though.  I didn't think they ought to be quite that obvious about rolling their eyes and muttering comments.  I much preferred the quiet moans of the worker I landed on.
                 Then, I stood at the top of the Bunny Slope.  Why, it didn't look so bad!  Hardly steeper than the little hillocks where I'd just spent more than an hour falling...err... learning to ski.  But... umm, wait. How odd.  The skiers going down the slope before me...about halfway down...seemed somehow to... disappear. The little voice in my head was speaking somewhat louder now.  That was when I discovered they don't let you get back on the ski lift. Not even when you beg.
              The only way down was gonna be on (I fervently hoped) my own two feet, or rather, skis.  I took a deep breath, coughed once or twice, looked up to the heavens, pictured (with newly discovered nostalgia) the ski resort lobby, and pushed off. 
               The first ten feet weren't so bad.  I was upright, more or less, for most of it.  When I hit the drop off, the situation changed.  I went, well... I went.
Let's leave it at that.  You have a good imagination.  Use it. Stretch it.  I don't really remember enough of it to describe it to you, other than brief flashes of quickly moving people (very quickly moving people) and a lot of white snow.
              After I landed, I thought about getting up.  Had anyone noticed I'd fallen?  I rather thought so.  I did manage to miss anyone else though, and I don't think I screamed much after the first tumble. (It's hard to scream with a mouth full of snow.)  But, surely someone would come.  I decided to just lie there, like a romantically and tragically prostrate damsel in distress, awaiting rescue.  Hey... maybe he'd even be cute!  And, the snow was rather soft where I was, looking up at the people passing over me in the ski lifts.  I thought, isn't it lucky I'm wearing my contacts? 
                When my rescuer finally reached me, I looked up into his face.  Hmm, things were looking brighter.  He was cute.  He was tall.  He was strong. (A rescuer is always strong.) He was smiling at me!  Ah, I thought, my little accident wasn't all that bad.  It might even have a pay off!
 
            My handsome rescuer looked down at me.  Our eyes met.
 
I will never forget his first words to me as he reached for my eagerly outstretched hands.  "You know," he snickered, "I don't think anyone's ever ended up here before."
               "I hate snow" was my only answer.
              That next summer, I took up bowling.