1

Over the Hill . . . the Bunny Hill

henever people tried to coax me

into skiing, I envisioned myself like

a cartoon character rolling down

the hill in a giant snowball, with skis and poles

sticking out in all directions. My vision wasn't

too far from reality.

After four years working at a ski resort, I finally

worked up the courage to hit the slopes for the

first time. I had no idea what to do with the

equipment in my hands as I hobbled out of the

rental shop wearing ski boots. When I met my

instructor, I asked, "How do I put on these skis?

Is there a right one and a left one?"

We headed for the bunny slope; it looked to me

like we had just entered Candy Land. The ski

slope was decorated with giant gumdrop ski

markers and colorful arches. The bunny hill,

intended for beginners, was swarming with

expert skiers -- all of them appearing to be

around 5 years old. I was old enough to be their

grandmother.

We approached a giant conveyor belt called the

Magic Carpet. I watched a few tots glide onto it

and float up the hill. I quickly learned the Magic

Carpet must require some magic I don't

possess. As I tried to get on, the Magic Carpet

grabbed my skis, pulling my legs forward while

the rest of me lurched backward.

On my second attempt, I managed to jam one

ski under the lip at the side of the belt. One leg

started up the hill as my other ski wedged in the

snow perpendicular to the conveyor belt. For

one terrifying moment, headlines flashed

through my mind: "Middle-aged Woman Dies

W

2

on Magic Carpet." What will the children think!

I worried. Just as I was about to be drawn-and-

quartered, the operators shut off the Magic

Carpet to extract me from its clutches. During

the delay, I thought I heard and impatient child

asking, "Mommy, what's the funny old lady

doing?"

Getting up the hill was traumatic enough, so I

asked where to get on the carpet that went

down. I was pointed toward the ski hill where

all the tiny pros darted back and forth between

gumdrops.

Leaning to ski is complicated by the fact that

everything is backward: to turn right, push left

and to turn left, push right. Before long I could

no longer tell left from right. Perhaps this is

where the 5-year-olds had me beat.

Maybe I could learn to ski if I didn't have to

turn, but that would restrict me to being an

Olympic ski-jumper. I always fell on the left

turns, but right turns I could manage.

Unfortunately, that is only helpful if you're

learning to drive -- just make right turns and

you'll drive around the block. If I go skiing and

don't come back, look for me on the back side

of the mountain, going in a giant circle. Tell the

ski patrol, "She'll be coming around the

mountain when she comes."

The first time I fell, I did the splits. Another time

I fell with my pole lodged in the snow with my

hand, still grasping the handle, stretched three

feet above me. I nearly jerked my arm out of

the socket. Once I managed to flip my right ski

all the way over so it pointed uphill while my

left ski stayed behind me. I had achieved the

shape of a W. My instructor talked about pizza

(making a wedge with the skis) and French fries

(keeping the skis parallel). Never mind that; I

felt like a pretzel.

At one point the wind changed, and I caught a

whiff of pizza being served at the base lodge,

just below the bunny hill. I suddenly realized all

this talk about pizza and French fries had little

to do with technique. I was being bribed to get

back on my feet after each painful crash. Like

one possessed, I followed the scent down the

hill toward the base lodge, but Candy Land was

fenced off and my only choice was a return to

the terrifying Magic Carpet. After a few circuits,

Candy Land felt more like Chutes and Ladders as

I struggled to climb up the hill and slid down

again.

After numerous trips up the carpet (or should I

say tripping on the carpet?) and flailing my way

down the hill, my instructor announced I was

now a skier -- an overly optimistic appraisal --

and said good-bye. He skied off, undoubtedly to

share a good laugh with the other instructors.

That was when I realized I would have to get

down by myself.

I did make several runs on my own though they

were more like fits and starts. My final spill left

me with skis heading in all the wrong directions.

Unable to untangle my legs, I decided to take

my skis off, but my glove got caught in my ski

binding. I pulled my hand out of my glove and

sat on the hill for several minutes, trying to

figure out how to release my glove from the

binding. I pondered how much grief I'd take if I

skied down, with my glove flopping, and

returned the ski to the rental shop with the

glove still attached.

As I sat there, watching little experts whiz past, I

pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Maybe I

could call for pizza delivery.

©2010 Christy Bower, from Giggle & Snort Short Stories. The

author grants permission to share print or PDF copies with this

copyright notice intact. www.ChristyBower.com (Image

©iStockphoto.com / Leks052)