Worst. Conditions. Ever.

[no edge]

That sounds like so much fun, but it wasn't me that got married... it was my close ski buddy. That's how she improved so much - hanging out with him. There are many stories to tell. It was the 70's. SkiTalk is a sheltered community!

 

[Bill Miles]

The pros head straight to the bar, and let the rest of the people thrash about

Called skiing Mahogany Ridge.

 

[cantunamunch]

Now come on. You open a story that well you gotta finish it properly.

Like, "And we are still married." Or, "How we ended up back at the car I don't remember clearly, but at one point we were definitely in stocking feet, carrying our skis and boots through the snow." Or, "When the ambulance finally arrived it was just a white and red VW microbus owned by one of the patrollers. They had to take all the guy's sap buckets out before I'd fit in the back."

This is all too Hansel and Gretel meets Herbie the Love Bug ...in Vermont.

Stop the brutal Disney grooming - Put the GRIM back in Brothers M stories!

 

[dbostedo]

Put the GRIM back in Brothers M stories!

Fine... "How we ended up back at the car I don't remember clearly, but at one point we were definitely in stocking feet, carrying our skis and boots through the snow toward what I thought was a hottub. But the hottub turned out to actually be a large cauldron, and she cooked and ate some children. It was CRAZY!"

 

[Erik Timmerman]

I skied some bumps like you describe today. We had the hard freeze last week. We got the new snow on Thursday and Friday and the ferocious winds yesterday. I think one of the things that really gets you here is accuracy. There was a line that existed where you could ski these bumps mostly on the softer or chalkier snow and not be getting drilled by the ice the whole time. I was skiing to and showing it to my clients, but I think what makes it hard for them is they just aren't accurate enough to hit the spots needed. Of course you can't be accurate without all of the fundamentals firing all the time (or at least most of the time). Patience goes a long way too. It's hard to let the skis run down the hill long enough when you are gaining speed pointed at a wall of ice, but if you are turning your feet too hard that's when you start slamming soles first into the hardest parts of the bumps. Ouch.

 

[cantunamunch]

Fine... "How we ended up back at the car I don't remember clearly, but at one point we were definitely in stocking feet, carrying our skis and boots through the snow toward what I thought was a hottub. But the hottub turned out to actually be a large cauldron, and she cooked and ate some children. It was CRAZY!"

I see we're going to have to work on setting, pacing and mood with you For example, @Erik Timmerman s post can be rewritten as:

The freeze was a killing freeze. And the wind had left a boneyard. Contorted, twisted mounds piled on top of each other, in, out, without order. The wind was ever cruel: it drove into panicked frenzy before it killed. These mounds, lifeless, still writhed with the imperative to escape.

Cloth settles into the crevices and negative space left by scavengers. Old sun-bleached uniforms settle into bones. And thus the fresh snow settled in. This was no coverlet, no blanket thrown by Ragged Man Winter. These were scraps and disconnected fluttering pieces of rag, hiding no sliver of soft stuff. Even hardened leather had long been spotted and picked over.

This particular set of scavengers was late to the feast. Their ski poles made disconnected flashes. Like the legs of fledgling ravens, they didn't know whether to walk or hop. And so they lurched from one rise to the other. Forward? Sideways? The fledglings' courage had limits. The mountain wasted no time attacking their feet. Their hops turned spastic as the pain fought their young hunger and dangerously young curiosity. Their heads bobbed and prayed for balance.

One among them, older, smoother, made more connected motions from scrap to rag to fluttering remnant. She hid her feet from the mountain, not letting it feel her on its flank. DId the fledglings see her move? Could they follow? Could they mimic? They tried. Maybe. They would try again tomorrow, when the pain faded and young curiosity rose again. Today, she knew she had to get them off this slope, and soon. The mountain was distracted and its minions were tired, but it wasn't sleeping - or any less angry.

 

[Tytlynz64]

I see we're going to have to work on setting, pacing and mood with you For example, @Erik Timmerman s post can be rewritten as:

The freeze was a killing freeze. And the wind had left a boneyard. Contorted, twisted mounds piled on top of each other, in, out, without order. The wind was ever cruel: it drove into panicked frenzy before it killed. These mounds, lifeless, still writhed with the imperative to escape.

Cloth settles into the crevices and negative space left by scavengers. Old sun-bleached uniforms settle into bones. And thus the fresh snow settled in. This was no coverlet, no blanket thrown by Ragged Man Winter. These were scraps and disconnected fluttering pieces of rag, hiding no sliver of soft stuff. Even hardened leather had long been spotted and picked over.

This particular set of scavengers was late to the feast. Their ski poles made disconnected flashes. Like the legs of fledgling ravens, they didn't know whether to walk or hop. And so they lurched from one rise to the other. Forward? Sideways? The fledglings' courage had limits. The mountain wasted no time attacking their feet. Their hops turned spastic as the pain fought their young hunger and dangerously young curiosity. Their heads bobbed and prayed for balance.

One among them, older, smoother, made more connected motions from scrap to rag to fluttering remnant. She hid her feet from the mountain, not letting it feel her on its flank. DId the fledglings see her move? Could they follow? Could they mimic? They tried. Maybe. They would try again tomorrow, when the pain faded and young curiosity rose again. Today, she knew she had to get them off this slope, and soon. The mountain was distracted and its minions were tired, but it wasn't sleeping - or any less angry.

Narrated by Morgan Freeman with a few Bollywood numbers thrown in and you have an Amazon Prime hit.