Knee Replacement 19: New Knees, New Year, New Me?

As this is the time of year to make and break New Year’s resolutions, I’ll share mine: I resolve to learn all the trail names of the two ski resorts where I regularly ski. Now, you might scoff. What a lame resolution! However, hear me out. As you might expect, there’s a story behind it, and that story begins yesterday.

Alta is sublime on this day, warmish—upper 30s with little to no wind—and it’s been a few days since the last snowstorm. All the hype is history, and the holidays are over; the mountain is catching its breath. I’ve taken out my groomer skis, the beloved Dynastar Legends, and I’m following the doctor’s orders to take it easy, avoid moguls, and variable conditions. Spinning afternoon laps on the groomed runs serviced by the Supreme Lift, I roll off the cat track at the top and slice long S turns.

So pleased with myself, happy to be back on skis, I’m even welcoming the burn from my not-yet-strong, post-knee-replacement quads. Sanguine and sublime are words that form in the vacuum of my mind space.

And then an orange flash erupts in my periphery as a sizeable man on yellow skis burns past me at the speed of light. Or so it seems. Tiny crystals spray from his ski edges, pelting my cheek. There’s murder in my eyes.

I will kill, kill, kill that backseat bomber.

I’ve never feared getting hit by another skier, mainly because I was generally skiing faster than the other skier. This has changed. I’m slow now, working my new knees cautiously, and other skiers sometimes have the ability to scare the hell out of me. I’m old. They are always young, always tickling the sound barrier, and usually sitting on the backs of their skis. You can’t make good turns from the back of your skis, no matter how young and strong you are. And that was this guy. He couldn’t avoid me if he had to. And, yeah, he scared me.

I hope you eat shit, is what I’m thinking. No dressing it up. The inner voice is crude, wishing death to the orange flame.

In a moment, however, he’s gone, and I’m alone on the slope again, trying to come back into myself, to re-enter the bliss that had been blown asunder.

Just breathe. Focus on your turn, pole plant, lead change, ride the edge … calm.

Descending into a dip filled with shadow, rising up, floating on the unweight, the western sun kissing the tree-top horizon… And I nearly hit the ski. Thankfully, it’s yellow, easy to spot, and I stop in time. Next to it is a pole. Forty yards down the hill, I see another ski and pole, and below that a ball of orange.

I pick up the ski and the pole and ski down to the ball of writhing sunbeam.

Karma’s a bitch, I’m thinking.

But I’m not saying that because the civility lessons my parents taught me half a century ago have lately resurfaced. Perhaps a response to a world that’s become more crass by the moment? Possible, but a subject for another day. On this day, instead of speaking, I stab the pole into the ground and then loop the wrist strap around the tip of the ski in my hand. Digging the tail of the ski into the snow, I make a triangle uphill of the fallen Icarus. This will make him more visible to those above and might prevent him from getting hit by another backseat bomber.

Are you all right? I ask, but I don’t need to wait for the answer, because he is clearly not all right. His face is filled with snow, sticking to his chin and cheeks as if it were plastered on, and his leg is oddly contorted.

Do you want me to call patrol? I ask.

Wiping the snow away from his face, he doesn’t answer. I’m not sure he’s able. He’s been rocked. Concussion is a likelihood.

Good, I’m thinking, karma’s got a mean right cross.

He rubs his face with both hands, the snow coming away to reveal a snow-white beard and pink cheeks. He is as old as I am. Maybe older. Positively Santa-esque.

Kris Kringle gets crushed, I muse, ashamed of myself for the tickle of mirth. What kind of asshole wants to murder Santa?

Pulling off my glove with my teeth, I fish out my phone and ask Siri to call the Alta Ski Resort main number. After navigating the phone tree and connecting with a human, I’m redirected to a man with a one-word salutation: Dispatch.

I explain the situation and give my best account of our location.

We’re on Supreme, above the cabins at the point where three trails come together, I tell him.

Um, that could be a lot of places.

We’re on a groomed run, I say, just before it turns right and flattens out.

Can you see a trail sign from where you are?

I can’t, but it’s the place where three groomers meet. Next to one called Rock ‘N Roll.

Exasperated, he asks for my phone number, which I provide, and then says that they will send someone down with a sled.

We’ll call you if we can’t locate you, says Dispatch.

At that moment, a ski instructor slides up to us, and I ask Dispatch to hold on.

The ski instructor opens with a query about fallen Santa’s wellbeing, and we quickly cover that ground before I ask him if he knows the name of the trail we’re on so that I can tell Dispatch.

Tell him that you are on Sleepy Hollow, next to the Vicky’s Gully gate. I repeat this information, and Dispatch hangs up as the instructor skis away.

I’m left alone with fallen Santa.

My kids would describe this moment as Awkward... they do it in a sing-song falsetto that is indeed awkward to listen to. It seems to come with a capital A, which is what I now feel like: a Capital A. I know I didn’t put a curse on him—I do not have the power of the hex—so why do I feel oddly guilty?

What’s your name? I ask, finally.

Todd. Yours?

I tell him and then we make small talk for twenty minutes, during which time he tells me where it hurts (badly, at the boot top) and asks what I think it is. I tell him, spiral fracture, and surprise myself with the certainty in my voice.

Are you a doctor?

No, but I’ve had pretty much every common ski injury you can think of, including a spiral fracture.

He nods.

I’m sorry you got hurt, I say. That sucks.

Thanks for stopping, he says. You didn’t have to.

You’re welcome, I say. I feel pretty dumb for not knowing the names of any of these trails. I’ve only been skiing here for twenty-five years.

Twenty-five years, he says. You’re a real local.

I laugh and say, A real local would know the names of the runs.

Just then, a red-coated ski patroller skis up. Her nametag reads Emily, and she’s towing a sled. I thank Emily for coming, wish Santa Todd good luck, and turn down the hill, making my New Year’s resolution on the go.

The pop psychologists among us, and certainly my good friend Tom Yellin, might claim that I am looking to locate myself, or re-locate myself, in the world, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. The simpler explanation: Next time I need to call ski patrol, I will be able to tell them where I am. Who knows, it might be me I’m calling for.