Skiing in Garmisch-Partenkirchen

Location: GARMISCH-PARTENKIRCHEN, 

GERMANY

When my friends asked me if I wanted to go skiing last weekend, I had a little more than a nanosecond between my thought processing and my loud "YES" answer. What should have processed instead during that time, should have been the obvious fact that I had not skied in nearly seven years and that time seven years ago was my first time EVER skiing. And that was skiing in North Carolina, not the German Alps. Nonetheless, I was on the train with them first thing Saturday morning.



Before I left Florida, I had insisted that I find the perfect white ski outfit. I wanted to at least look the part. Skiing in the Alps was #17 on my Bucket List. Learning to Snowboard is #22. So, at the peer pressure of my friends, I rented a snowboard. I can surf, so I thought, "How much more different can this be?" Well, first, I am strapped to the board so when I fall, it isn't into churning salt water that at least gives a little. Instead, I crashed face first like a pancake being flipped on the skillet. At least I still looked the part. 

Admiting a bit of defeat (and not wanting to waste €35 for a day spent on my bum in the snow), I rented out a set of skis. Immediately when I got off the ski lift up to the base of the resort, I knew I was more stable and could keep up with the others. 


I had since lost everyone else, so I took the ski lift to the top of a red run. I got off at the top of the lift and peered over the slope. I watched as small children fearlessly skied down the slopes. They were better than me. What nerve. Recounting what spur-of-the-moment lessons I received on my North Carolina trip, I started zig-zagging my way down the mountain. I had my ski tips in the "pizza wedge" and had pretty decent control. At least good control over the first of a series of icy hills. 


I suddenly picked up speed over the next hill and before I knew it, I was blowing past everyone, including those little children, like I was qualifying late for the downhill skiing portion of the Winter Olympics. "They ain't got nothing on me" was my first thought. If the judges could have seen me, seen my form, they would've granted me the Gold weeks after the Olympics closing ceremony, no questions asked. Then if they had seen my epic "yard sale" they would've given me a 9. A 9 because nine things went flying off me: my goggles, the padding on the goggles, my beanie, two ski poles, two skis, the gum in my mouth, and my pride. 


"Oh my gosh this is going to hurt" was my second thought.


I made it down the run a second time, with only two more crashes, determined to get one more run in before we had to catch the train back. "Oh, this one is easy. It is just like stairs. You have one small hill and then it is flat. Then another hill. Then flat". Those were the words that sealed my fate.


Not barely down the first "stair", I face planted. Growing frustrated, I told my friends to go along ahead. At least they could have a fun run. I saw a sign for the blue run. "Oh, easy." Wrong. I crashed one turn into the hill, this time with little options of getting my skis back on. Poised on a steep hill, I would stand up, loose my footing (or my ski) and be forced to pick out compacted snow from my boots and try to get my skis back on. After about 10 minutes I succeeded. Only to fall on the next hill. And this is where I just took off my skis, picked them up in my arms and walked. All the way down the side of the Alps. 

I'll save you the detailed description, but I can sum it up like this: I would walk down one hill, reach a plateau and reattach my skis. I would then realize after a short distance on skis that the next "stair" was coming. I would inevitably fall again, and hoping to make it down the mountain before dark, I would start my walking process again. 


I did finally make it down(obviously), albeit an hour later with bruising shins and bleeding blisters. But, I managed to ski the last part, which brought me directly into base camp, and thus saving face because, well, I actually skied instead of walking into camp.

Bruised shins. Tear in my perfect ski outfit. Sore bum.  A case of bronchitis a few days later. But, it was all worth it for the warm gluhwein at the end. And the friends around the fire. And now I can add "Walk down the side of the Alps when you epic fail at skiing" to my Bucket List.