Whistling down a ski slope at an unintended new high speed. Feeling my left ski boot quake free from its binding. Entering an uncontrolled summersault. A flash of orange safety fence on one rotation. A copse of muscled trees in the next. The vague awareness to simply pray, “Please, God,” as I hurtle right towards it.
*Record scratch*
Hey! You see that guy wearing the Lions jersey over his coat, spraying up snow as he tumbles down that ski hill? Yeah, that’s me. You might be wondering how I got in this situation.
*Tape whirring backwards*
I have quite humble beginnings as a downhill skier. What began as a sixth-grade field trip to Bittersweet was followed by a teenage broken arm at Caberfae, but slowly recovered to become near-annual trips to northern Michigan slopes with just one “real mountain” experience at Lake Tahoe mixed in.
These experiences culminated last year when I found myself at Mount Bohemia in the UP’s northernmost Keweenaw Peninsula. This ski resort was a totally new experience for me—backcountry runs through snow-ornamented coniferous habitats, powdered slopes of dazzling drifts, ABBA-themed buses to shuttle me back to the lodge, and steaming outdoor hot tubs colonized by hundreds of small sausages that had fallen off of pizzas from the poolside oven. It was glorious.
For someone of my skill level, though, Mount Bohemia went largely untrod. I returned from that trip exhausted by the small number of runs I grew comfortable enough with to spend most of my three days on, perhaps ten percent of the total runs available. But amidst that exhaustion was joy and pride, and a desire to return and experience more of that beautiful mountain.
My friends and I made our plans to return in March of this year, and also tapped the benefits of the season pass to cash in our complimentary lift tickets at Crystal Mountain this past weekend. I chose to treat this as my warm-up for Mount Bohemia—a less extreme environment to put my abilities to the test, perfecting swift turns and proper form before entering the crucible. We began our day and my newly acquired Facebook Marketplace skis felt strong and swift under my feet. The blue Windrunner decal slapped on my helmet helped my body feel the same. I began to approach each run with increased confidence, looking for opportunities to take the road-less-traveled-by down each slope and pushing myself to higher speeds and sharper brakes.
A couple hours in, the Loki Quad brought me once again to the top of the slopes. A trail titled “Nose Dive” dropped sharply off the eastern face, beckoning my emboldened self to conquer it. I watched one stranger skid out on their way down, then two. My friends were next, each making their way down without incident. With no second thoughts, I dropped onto the trail. I managed to kill my initial momentum with a first turn, but quickly picked up enough speed that I faltered in my confidence to successfully brake with a second. Opting for a wide, swinging turn that instead added a few mph, I set my eyes down-slope and crouched in an athletic stance to handle this faster-than-anticipated descent. Whistling down the ski slope at this unintended new high speed, I felt my left boot quake free from its binding…
*Record scratch*
Alright, so now you have some context for the blurred man avalanching down Crystal Mountain. I guess this whole record scratch trope is usually used to bring some sort of extra clarity around the lesson or moral of a story, so let’s take a stab at that.
I could have attempted a sharper second turn on that descent and probably skidded out like the strangers before me, but that smaller intentional fall would have saved me from putting myself into a significantly riskier fall a few moments later. I should have known my limits better, and a moment of evaluative introspection at the top of “Nose Dive” would have imparted that the morning’s previous successes were no guarantee of future triumphs. And when it was clear that the fall was inevitable, I could have sought refuge in the classic adage of Batman Begins: “Why do we fall, sir? So we can learn to pick ourselves up again.” Maybe this whole thing was simply an exercise in resilience before I inevitably have some of those calculated, minor falls on runs within my capability at Mount Bohemia this year.
Now, where were we? Ah, yes, “Please, God.”
*Tape whirring forwards*
Bouncing off the trail into a drift. Tingling snow spraying the back of my neck. Sliding to a stop. A blessed lack of impact bludgeoning my body. Rising to my feet between two stocky trees, the gauntlet I had perhaps been guided through by the mental prayer I was able to squeeze out. A dutiful friend skiing to my side and quadruple-checking I’m okay. Going into the lodge for lunch and feeling cold adrenaline make its home in my stomach, diminishing my appetite as I balance talking about the fall so I can laugh it off, but not making an unnecessarily grandiose deal of it. Laughing harder, instead, at how several friends are wearing their neckwarmers on their heads for comedic effect. Hitting a few more casual slopes before basking in the hot tub. Driving back to Ann Arbor as the sky turns violet, then navy, then black.
Writing this piece a few days later, still a little sore but better off with the memories of this ski excursion than without them.
Luke Brandsen graduated in 2019 and uses his business/HR degree to inform directing mission-focused programs. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he squints at the players on his bootleg soccer stream, breaks guitar strings, and desperately tries to recall where the last D&D session he ran left off.
