As I collect my thoughts, I catch myself stroking my whiskers, staring off into the limitless night from the small circular table in Marc’s guest apartment. The air outside is cold and clear, weightless. The story behind the bottle of painkillers on my desk swirls about in my head and taunts the new sling keeping my freshly dislocated shoulder still. “How did I do this?” I ask myself repeatedly. I’d done that trick more than enough to say I could do it confidently. After a wonderful, sunny day of riding Stratton, VT, I found myself standing at the top a park I hadn’t seen yet. The drop order was called out by the amount of facial hair one had. I dropped third. As any jibber or park junkie will tell you, always plan out your lines in the park. This run felt funny. I couldn’t see any line I wanted to really mess around with at the time, so I just dropped.
Little did I know, this was Last Run. I decided it was in my best interest to avoid the down-flat-down box at the top of the park. Instead, I would just hand-drag before the roller and skip the park. Nature was out to get me. I whipped my board around switch, and leaned way back until my knuckles were dragging behind me, keeping me stable. I saw the knuckle of the roller coming through my legs and kept low, ready to pop for the switch back 180 out over the roller. The drop came but I never popped, too late. Due to the steepness of the roller I was now on, my shoulder couldn’t handle the weight gravity was forcing upon it.
I landed awkwardly, sat and quickly rode out of the way. I threw my arm up into the air in a wild attempt to pop my shoulder back into place. When I dislocated my knee I was lucky enough to have it pop immediately back into place. Luck had no role this time around. I was scolded several times by Liz and Katherine, friends of Hayes, the bearded savior, to sit still. I couldn’t stop writhing around to get a comfortable spot for my shoulder, in doing so causing myself more pain.
Finally, Ski Patrol arrives for what I would later describe as the most agonizingly painful sled ride of my life. Dipping and turning, Ski Patrol maneuvered down the mountain as fast as they could without bumping around too much. Every dip and turn caused me to clutch my shoulder tighter, the pain silenced by a clenched jaw and a tight fist. At the end of my sleigh ride, I was received by a makeshift ambulance and shipped to the clinic. A familiar face hopped into the back with me, a smiling and content Marc Z found a secure seat. After staring at the rust spot on the van’s roof for another eternity, we came to a stop in front of the clinic.
After transitioning to a bed, I’m parked to wait for the elevator. On the bed next to me, a little girl who couldn’t have been more than 6, clutched her knee and rocked slowly back and forth. A light stream of tears shone on her cheek in the light above. I felt even worse for her, but at least she had her mother for comfort. Not to say Mike and Marc weren’t around, they just aren’t my mom, you know? The elevator beeped at its arrival and I was taken to finally get it over with. The x-ray was taken, I was shown my injury and told how it was going to pop back into place. Marc’s words “Oh, it’s going to kill when they put it back in…bad” looped in my head endlessly throughout this process.
When I met the doctor, he seemed like a nice, trustworthy guy who would alleviate the arm numbing pain in my shoulder. And this was true. But I lost faith when he acted as though he were inspecting my shoulder once more. He felt where my shoulder should be and pulled his hand back slightly. As his hand returned to my shoulder, his other joined, along with the 3 other pairs that had snuck up to secure me from squirming. A series of clicks and cracks, and what I would describe as a “KUGHK” sound were followed by immediate relief. I proceeded to proclaim my love to the staff, sign a few papers and head back to Marc’s Stratton Mansion. I was ready to leave the clinic.
The snow still floats in the cold, weightless air outside. The smell of raisin toast has wafted into all corners of the room. It was delectable. The last of the lights alive in the room is directly above, soon to conform to its peers. To sleep, I take solace in imagining my next trip to the mountain. It’s another sunny day, where many layers aren’t necessary. I’m accompanied by many friends, ready to shred. We’re standing at the top of our first run, simply taking it in. The last of the binding clicks echo into the air 4000 feet high, never to be heard by another. Dropping…
Red and Black Lumberjack 