No Safety Net, No Internet: Recovery

Old Wolves Sometimes Don't Quietly Step Off The Young Blood Stage

I suddenly have a choice: try to throw my legs and skis up over my shoulders to face the edges downhill to stop and risk wrenching a knee should a ski twist; or simply ride out the slide and eventually friction will bring me to a stop. My head and shoulders are facing downhill, yet I’m unhurt. I have fallen before, I’m not worried because I am going to ride this out like all the other falls.

Perhaps that was my mistake, there’s no way of knowing.

The photo above is my X-Ray, the result of me trying to be a young blood and chase my 17 year old son down the slopes. It was the day after Christmas, 2021, and I had been fortunate to see my son develop into a great skier, and on this day he surpassed me because I ended up with a broken ankle.

We were at Belleayre Mountain in the Catskills where I grew up. Winters I skied there and this Christmas we had returned and I needed to fulfill a promise to give my son plenty of slope time. As father and son we had been out to my old ski destinations. At least the ones that still existed, as many have closed in the past 40 years.

40 years. I think I’ve had a subconscious plan to publish this on my birthday, as I have one year left before 60, and that’s a big number when you’re supposed to think about slowing down. My problem is I can’t. That gets me in trouble. I love the outdoor adventures I still have with my family today, and I don’t want to slow down despite what Father Time and the Man Upstairs whisper in my ear. Getting old sucks.

The trail was Dot Nebel, my son and I had been on it many times, but this particular time would be when I’d go over a ledge. Conditions that winter were a huge factor. Skiing out east can be tricky because it gets icy. In 2021 there had been a series of freezes and thaws, and because I wanted to make good on my promise to my son, I bought tickets ahead of time for Christmas week. When we rolled into Woodstock a few days earlier, there was no snow. At all.

Belleayre, outside of Margaretville NY, has a base elevation of 2,025 feet and a top elevation of 3,429 feet, so the weather on the mountain is much different than the valleys, so my hope was that there would be some type of skiing. We arrived on the 22nd, and had already hit Hunter Ski Center the next day and made the best of it. It was icy there as well, with very little base and less than half the trails open. The 24th brought us snow, and we hiked up Overlook Mountain. My son’s hopes were high as he thought the snow was the start of a good trend.

It rained on Christmas the next day.

We had already purchased the tickets, there was no refund so we went on the 26th as planned.

Belleayre had done their best to maintain a base, but when you looked at the mountain you could see the trails with crusted, hard scraped snow and ice, while the gullies, glades and surrounding mountains remained brown and grey. It was slick, the weather was 34 degrees so snowmaking didn’t provide much cover. We were there prior to the lifts starting and even with fresh grooming it was a hard crust, as the wind would whip over the trails and glaze the surface with water and snow exposed.

When you’re younger, you don’t think of this stuff, when you’re 55 you think about sore knees and ankles, then tell yourself to power through it. Sometimes that caution is good, sometimes it translates to your legs and then not so good things can happen when you tense up.

In the afternoon we hit Dot Nebel, it was one of our favorite trails. It’s a gondola ride all the way to the top of the mountain and has a breathtaking vista at the summit. The trail was thinly covered, but the gullies and service trails for equipment were bare. It’s a steep Black Diamond and it was really icy, really tricky. My son flew down first and took a spill and skid. I called out but he didn’t hear me, so I picked up speed to catch him to see if he’s ok.

With the next turn my skis slid out from underneath me - I hit an ice patch and was focused on my son so I wasn’t paying attention.

A-thousand-one.

I was sliding, it was no big deal, I’ve fallen on this trail before. They say you’re not skiing well enough if you don’t take a spill now and then.

A-thousand-two.

I was picking up speed as my head and shoulders raced downhill first with my skis and legs pointed uphill. I can’t see where I’m going. No big deal though.

A-thousand-three.

I was still picking up speed.

A-thousand-four.

I hadn’t slowed and now I was faced with trying to throw my legs and skis, which were above me, downhill. If I got my skis beneath me I could use the edges to stop, or at least slow down.

A-thousand-five.

But my old wolf thinking kicks in: I don’t want to twist a ski and wrench a knee, tear ligaments or worse if I can’t get both over my head and they get tangled. I’m going ride it out, I’ll stop eventually. But I heard the wind rushing as I had really picked speed.

A-thousand-six.

Suddenly branches struck my back and helmet - I had gone off slope and was still sliding at a good clip through bramble.

A-thousand-seven.

Next I was airborne. My legs sailed over my head as my shoulder must have gripped rock or gravel. My legs kept going, then the rest of me was pitched in a slow motion arc. My eyes followed my skis as I spun.

I can still see how it ended, in slow motion, how my right ski catches the ground with the outside edge and my knee shoots to my face, trapping my right pole. The pole gets caught between my knee and head, it bends over my knee as my leg compresses, and the rest of me shifts, only to be thrown back to the left after I impact, my ankle stays in place as it freaking jams. Hard. It points one way while I twist the other.

It’s only a sprain, I told myself. It’s only a sprain.

Looking at my right leg, I see the ski snapped off and the binding is smashed. My knee and ankle are screaming at me, but it’s only a sprain. I’d know if the ankle was broken. You’d know it.

And I’m pissed, because it’s 2021 and the revenge against the Covid lockdowns and the orders from Governor Whitmer on a weekly basis was to be out doing what I loved. And I wanted to ski.

It was only a sprain, I’d be back out there in a month, 6 weeks tops. March skiing for sure.

The rest of me was ok. I wasn’t bleeding. I could breath without pain in my ribs and while my shoulder was sore, it didn’t hurt as bad as my knee and ankle. My bell was wrung pretty good, but I was pumped from the pain and the weird freakish ride down the trail and off a ledge.

Holy shit I went over a ledge - the fall was about 4-5 feet. Somehow I didn’t hit a tree, nor hit my head or break anything as I went off trail. Because I knew it was only a sprain.

After I took off my left ski, I stood up, and yep, this sprain was bad there was no way I could ski on the right ankle. My mind was still piecing this together, because I had just realized that my binding was broken, yet here I’m thinking I’m going to snap the ski on once I get out onto the trail. I could move on the ankle though. That was a good sign - I could use my skis as a crutch and lean on them.

Looking up I saw that I was a good 30-40 feet from the trail edge, and was in a gulley, about 10 feet down. At the time I didn’t consider how I got through without hitting a tree. Instead I was thinking about my son. For whatever reason I knew he was ok but had to reason to justify that. I wasn’t sure if he saw me go off or not. Regardless, I was far enough away that people skied by and couldn’t see me. I could see them flying by, and there’s no way they could hear me.

No choice but to walk out. I’ll walk down the hill and at the lift get help. That had to be the plan, no other choice. Further down I could see the gulley meeting the trail so I headed for that. It was doable. And after all I only had a sprain.

I couldn’t walk up the rise to get to the trail, so I sat down, put the skis over my shoulder and did a quasi crab walk with my left leg as I pushed myself up and out. It wasn’t steep, just slippery enough that I had to dig and push. A few people passed by, as I was still out of sight.

When I got to the edge, I realized that I had slid all the way down to the service trail at the bottom of the Black Diamond. Upper Dot Nebel ends at a gentler slope a third of the way down the mountain. I didn’t see my son, so I assumed he didn’t witness my accident since I wiped out above him. In any case, the slope here was shallower and I could make my way over to the service trail, then eventually over to the next trail where there was a ski lift. I would get help there.

It’s weird how you don’t think right after an injury. There are a ton of thoughts that go through your head, but how rational those truly are is debatable. I was mobile and not bleeding. Got lucky once again.

So all I have to do is plant the ski ahead of me, move the left foot, I told myself. I did that for a minute or so - as far as I’m concerned I’m going to walk off this mountain if I have to, I’m not giving in.

Finally someone came along and stopped After asking if I’m ok and after I utter “I’m all right”. He didn’t believe me and old me “don’t be dumb, you need help. I’ll get the ski patrol.”

I needed to hear that - it woke me up to the fact that my adrenaline may be thinking too much for me. I hate having to ask for help, with anything. I’m dumb that way, stubborn. Self reliance is primary for me, a lot of times that works, sometimes not so much.

Once they got me off the trail and into the first aid center, they told me that I might have a broken ankle. Of course I said “Naw - it doesn’t hurt that bad. It’s a sprain”. They said they could cut off my boot and I NO WAY, so they reluctantly got it off me with me gritting my teeth. You see, I had to hold onto the fact that this wasn’t a serious injury. I just knew I’d be back at it within a month.

Pretty soon my son came in - he had no clue that I had gone off the hill and assumed we’d meet at the bottom. Now we had another problem - my wife was an hour away, and my son didn’t have his driving permit yet. Had we been in Detroit I would have had no problem with him driving as Michigan roads are a piece a cake compared to Roxbury, Margaretville and the Catskill mountains in the winter. Mountain driving is much different, and he had never driven anything like these roads. If I took the ambulance I’d have to leave the car which added more headaches - we only had one car with us. My wife was with her friend from high school who happened to live not too far away in Poughkeepsie and now there were all these logistics to deal with. For whatever reason I didn’t want to be driving between hospital and ski center and elsewhere. Like I said, my adrenaline was thinking for me.

So I did what I’m not supposed to do - I drove myself to the hospital which was 30 minutes away, and walked into the ER. It was only a sprain after all.

The photo at the very top of this post tells the story. I got lucky, I had a complete fracture of the ankle. The inner knuckle - that’s what I call it - was cracked all the way through, but amazingly it all fell back in place. Nothing had shifted. In a way that made sense because of how I came down with most of my weight on top. I was still pretty high on adrenaline at that point, and I had to laugh at how crazy it was that I kept wishing away reality, clinging to my self perpetuating myth of “it’s only a sprain”. Your mind does that when you’re stubborn.

We had planned to depart the next day and drive back to Detroit, so I got lucky in that I didn’t have to do any of the driving. Except that come the next day, all adrenaline was gone, and the pain was a lot worse. The brace they wanted to put on me hurt like a bitch, so they put a back splint on my foot and wrapped the ankle so it wouldn’t move. It was a long trip back that day lying in the back seat of the van.

Luckily I didn’t not need any pins nor operation. And already I was putting my plan in place so get back to skiing next season. My wife was upset that I would ever put skis on again when I told her it was the end. What I didn’t tell her was that I found a dent in my helmet from my ski pole. I grew up skiing without a helmet, and reluctantly adopted wearing one because the ski centers enforced it. Given the notch in my helmet, I realized how I got lucky again. I would have cracked my head open.

Coming back to Detroit after spending Christmas in the Catskills is really difficult for me. I grew up in the mountains, yet made my home in a flat, industrial area. I have always been able to get good work here, and our kids have had a good childhood. Michigan is beautiful and I escape to the Great Lakes and other hiking destinations as much as I can, as it keeps me sane. Detroit during Christmas time rarely has snow. Returning that year we had ZERO accumulation, yet I realized that it worked to my advantage. You see, I had 6-8 weeks of down time, I lost my winter love of skiing and hiking and earned that Darth Vader boot you depicted in the photo below. But since there was no snow and ice, I decided to get outside on the crutches and tour the block 4-5 times. It was a great work out for the arms and shoulders, as I was so damn restless with my leg propped up as I worked on the laptop. You have to find challenges when you’re knocked down, some other goal or activity to keep your spirit engaged.

I am a lucky man in many ways, and very lucky to be blessed with good health. I healed up nicely, and don’t have arthritis in that ankle despite what the doctor warned me of. I have a healthy distrust of doctors - the Darth Vader boot had a pump that should have inflated pouches to shield my ankle from the sides, but the pump stopped working. Part of recovery is taking things into your own hands, so I tore it apart and fixed it. You gotta do what you gotta do to keep yourself in the driver seat, particularly if you are on the mend. As soon as I could I was back on the foot, walking, and that summer we spent a few weeks hiking in Colorado. No pain. I am really lucky.

As you might have read from last month’s installment of No Safety Net, No Internet, I am back skiing. I would be lying if I told you that it’s no different than prior to my accident. Every once in a while I get hesitation, but I am back out there because of that. I’m not done skiing yet. My son and I have since returned to Belleayre, and it was good to get back out on those trails. The game is up in my head and in the realization that I’m not 17, I’m not 30. I still kick ass, but not like I used to. Getting old sucks, but to be able to get old is a blessing. And being able to see my kids, as adults, still skiing as an outdoor adventure and hearing them say they will teach their kids to ski is a welcomed consolation.

Riding up the ski lift last weekend, a guy my age told me of his father who kept skiing up to age 80. “My dad says ‘You don’t get old and stop skiing, you stop skiing then you get old’”. That’s a good mantra, and not just for skiing.

Never stop.