This post is a part of Manpreet’s on-going photography feature, Snap! To find out more about this, you can view his introductory post here.
Yesterday, after almost two months of being at the Blue Mountain ski resort, I finally went skiing. Yes, I’m just as disgusted at that gap between having arrived and skiing as you are, but in my defence, the slopes didn’t actually open until about a month ago, and I’ve been working a lot. This was my first time indulging in any sort of actual winter sport (falling over on my walk to work doesn’t count). I was slightly apprehensive with a good mix of animated, too (I’m usually at least half-dead on most days, which says a lot about the level of anticipation I had for this activity).
Okay, Half-Dead Harry – how many people did you kill?
Almost two, actually. After ten minutes of trying to lock my feet into my skis only to realise they needed adjusting, I went down what I can only describe as a barely present decline on an otherwise flat surface. After reaching my adrenaline rush quota for the day, I then spent another ten minutes trying to walk back up a now barely present incline before eventually giving up and just removing my skis altogether. Which of course then left me walking like a badly-dressed pirate with not one, but two, wooden legs.
I then progressed onto an actual practice hill, which I actually didn’t do too badly on. That was, until I decided to become Barry Big Boots and swooshed down the now slightly bigger decline at break-neck speed with my destination ultimately being the cordoned-off queuing area for the travelator, the two resulting victims of this being a father and his tiny child. The last memory I remember – before toppling over the barrier and into the terrified pair – is the look of fear and uncertainty in the father’s eyes as he desperately pulled his child away from my unstoppable course. I then went all Canadian on the both of them and apologised profusely whilst scrambling to get up. Thankfully, they were completely cool (haha, get it?) about it and sympathised with me, even empathising a little.
Oh, so you weren’t joking about almost committing manslaughter.
I didn’t let any of my murderous lust put me off, though. I got back up and went back down, and all was well. That was until a friend persuaded me to go on a real slope for beginners. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until we both began to get off the ski lift and instantly fell over, that we realised we were still somewhat below beginner-level; and from here on out, the rest of my skiing experience was a fun combination of panic, terror, excitement, terror, panic, and child-like enthusiasm over the snow.
Also the fear of impending death – I essentially fell down most of the slope before spending the remainder of my descent on my skis, bum, and hands, sliding down like a confused corpse, which was actually still very fun despite the snow in my pants and all over my face. The above snap is from a day when I didn’t actually ski and thus the scene having a calmer and more controlled feel to it.
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