January 6, 2007

It's a new year, and I am preparing myself for another family vacation. This trip will be different. My brother and sister are not coming - just Papa Peeples, Mama Peeples, and me.

I wake up in darkness. Get ready.

We drive to the airport; it's a smooth trip segemented by a brief conversation with a police officer about being late and what constitutes a valid excuse for breaking traffic laws - no citation. Everything is proceeding normally as we arrive at curbside check-in. We settle in our seats, confident that a few hours and a few hundred miles will take us somewhere wonderful.

Welcome to Denver, CO. It's beautiful here. Snow has been falling constantly, like a one-legged gymnist in a floor routine. An avalanche blocks our direct path to the resort; we have to go around (please add 2 hours to your trip). I assume control of the ipod-radio. The Doobie Brothers welcome us to Winter Park. It is cold and white. A blizzard blankets the mountain in confectioners sugar, and I'm the donut that's about to be rolled around in it.

-we leave and arrive

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January 7, 2007

I wake up in a fold-out bed. Get ready.

I am wearing the most clothing I have ever worn at one time. At a sultry 12 below 0 F we hop in a ski lift. This ski lift hated mornings, Floridians, and moving more than 4 yards without resting for 5 minutes. Try sitting in a meat locker for 45 mins in your most worn out undies while one of those factory size fans blows crushed ice in your face. I had never considered the worst place to be stuck in -12 degree weather. Now I don't have to. We make it off this delightful piece of machinery and head straight for the nearest lodge to stick every convenient body part under the hand dryer in the bathroom.

Right, ready to go. Strapped to glorified splinters we slide down the mountain in approximately 1/1000th of the time it took us to scale it. We repeat this behavior, periodically modifying our garb to maximize modesty and warmth. You know, the grass really is always greener on the other side - unless that side is in Colorado during the winter in which case the grass, like the tourist, is dead and buried under 6 feet of snow.

lunch time

With a scenic view of cold people and snow we eat overpriced food. Why did I order a Thai dish featuring duck at a restaurant which not only employed no Thai workers but had never in fact seen an Asian? I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that sauce was ketchup based. We continue skiing.

Chapter 2: "Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow"

It is high time I go off on my own. I hit the moguls on a black diamond called "Columbine". I jump on the lift with a man from Miami who likes to have sex with "stupid chicks" - we haven't kept in touch. I select a blue slope called "Edelweiss." I go with the gusto that believing you still ski like you were eleven gives you. Picking up speed I spot a ramp of snow some kind person has fashioned at the edge of the trail. Quickly I redirect. I plot my course: a jawdropping jump followed by a quick cut left, shoot through a patch of trees and drop down a snow wall back to the slope. I go, I jump, I begin turning, I stop to inspect a sturdy evergreen.

Lying in the snow like an abandoned G.I. Joe I have time to reflect: "my I hit that tree forcefully. I suspect I have broken my arm. Wait... yep, that's broken."

It doesn't hurt too horribly at this point. Evidently adrenaline numbs pain in addition to inspiring stupidity. I gather my poles (my skis stayed on some how). No one is really around. Why be sensible now? I use the poles to hold my shattered elbow at a 90 degreeish angle while I ski down the rest of the mountain hoping that I don't fall and that no jackass snowboarder cuts me off. At a flat portion of the slope I have to take my skis off. I carry them with my poles in my left hand while my broken right arm dangles at my side. I approach a ski station at the bottom of the mountain.

"Excuse me"

"yep?"

"Where do you go for a broken arm?"

"do you have a broken arm?"

"I think so."

Reclining on his apparently operational snowmobile,

"there's a clinic just over that hill behind the lift."

"...thanks."

-comminuted fracture of the proximal ulna

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January something, 2007

My friendly neighborhood orthopedist says "surgery." I now have Home Depot installed in my right arm, and typing this hurts suprisingly bad. I should probably ask the physical therapist (who I start seeing tomorrow) if typing's a good idea or what she knows about giant fans and meat lockers.

Ted's Remix on Scott's Narrative

Ninja's Remix on Scott's Narrative

Danielle's Remix on Scott's Narrative

OriginalStory