I was 27 when I first learned to ski. The fourth run of the day at Northstar as I was just getting comfortable with getting off the chair lift with my skis on, a small tyke ran over the back of my skis and I flew out of the skis and landed on a mogul. Fortunately, right behind me was a paramedic.
He rolled me over and held me up by the back of my overall straps so I could breathe easier. The ski patrol showed up within a few minutes and put me in a basket to get me down off the mountain. I kept pulling the blanker over my head so no one could recognize me which is ridiculous since there couldn’t have been anyone around who knew me.
I got into the ambulance and just as it started up, there was a loud whistle and the ambulance stopped. They opened the door and put a man in the ambulance with me that had his arm taped to his chest and a bandage over his nose and eye and a woman who had her leg tapped up to splints.
We finally made our way to the Truckee hospital where the ER doctor ordered my brand new ski clothes to be cut off of me. That was the worst part of the whole ordeal.
But the funniest part of the ordeal was to unfold three years later.