Weekends Are Made For Skiing...

In the beginning

A typical winter Saturday for Dave and I meant spending the day skiing at Badger Pass in Yosemite. At least that had been the typical Saturday for the past several weeks. You see, I just started learning how to ski over the holidays as a way to spend more time in our favorite mountains - the Sierra Nevada. I didn't fall in love with it at first, but as the weeks went on and I started getting better at it, I was in love. The speed, the fluidity of the movements, the rush... I had found a new passion to go with backpacking/hiking. Little did I know, the day I was about to get on my first Black Diamond runs, my life would change drastically in a split second.

February 23, 2013

I woke up to an email from a dear friend telling me to "have fun" skiing. The morning felt the same as every other Saturday morning - driving from Oakhurst to Badger Pass while sipping coffee and munching on a protein bar or two. It looked like a cloud had planted itself on the mountain as we were getting ready to hit the slopes, but it didn't deter us. 

I always liked to warm up on the Bruin run to get a feel for the snow before hitting the Blue runs, so naturally we headed over there. The lift seats were a little snowy/wet/icy and the operator didn't seem to care too much (not cleaning them off at all). The first two runs went well, and I wanted to do one more before heading over to the the better runs. I remember the chair felt colder and almost wetter than either of the previous two, but didn't think much of it at the time. Dave and I were getting ready to get off the chair and the next thing I knew, I was sliding...

The Fall

I remember not being able to stop. I remember trying to grab for the side rail (this lift didn't have the front bars). I remember screaming. I remember the impact and falling over. It all happened so fast. I was later told that it happened so fast that Dave heard me scream and by the time he turned his head my direction, I was gone. 

I remember laying in the snow... or maybe I should call it concrete snow... or maybe even ice. If it was powder, I might have been able to ski away from the fall. Instead I lay there, on my side, scared to death and in tears. I knew something was instantly wrong. My lower back was throbbing and my legs felt heavy, but there was a little movement in them. I could move my arms and I never blacked out. I could hear Dave yelling from 15 feet above me not to move. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't paralyzed. I wanted to know everything was going to be okay...

I remember the upper lift operator by my side within seconds. He witnessed it from not even 20 feet away. I remember ski patrol showing up in waves. I remember Dave finally being able to get off the lift and be "by my side". The next several minutes seemed to last forever. When ski patrol mentioned getting the ambulance rolling, I knew it was probably bad. I just wanted to ski, that's all I wanted to do...

As the shock started to wear off, the pain started to kick in at the First Aid hut. Sharp pains shot through my shins and feet. I seriously thought that I had shattered bones in my legs and feet from the fall. Somehow the nurse and few ski patrollers that stuck around managed to get my Arc'teryx shell, pants and layers off without cutting them (I was worried... I love my Arc'teryx gear and it's not cheap. See? I clearly didn't realize how badly I was injured yet.). It felt like I was in there forever waiting for the ambulance. The pain was starting to get really bad - and I have a pretty high tolerance for it. They made makeshift splints for my legs to try and help ease the pain. It didn't do much good. It was then I learned that morphine does nothing to me. Nothing was helping. All I wanted to do was sit up because laying flat on my back was painful and kept getting worse. I was in tears. I remember Dave holding my hand and trying to keep me calm. I was scared... really, really scared...

When the ambulance finally arrived, little did I know how long and painful of a ride it would be to Fresno Community Regional Medical Center. Two hours of slow, curvy driving on the 41 and morphine doing nothing was getting to be too much. The pain started to shoot up through my thighs on the way to Fresno. I didn't know what all was wrong, but I just wanted the pain to go away. Every bump, every turn, every stop was painful. I just wanted to not feel the ride.

To be continued...