Occasionally, Pop decides he's unhappy with the current ski trail, shrieks "Shortcut!" and takes off into the woods. This is probably not the worst of it.
What might be worse is the gut-wrenching fear that comes from watching my mother, who tore her ACL and is supposed to be, but is not, wearing a gigantic knee brace. She skis down black diamond trails at a perfect, rail straight, 90-degree angle to the hill.
Meanwhile, Dad decides it's boring to walk back to the hotel so he skis right through the middle of the Winter Carnival, right past the teenagers in the toboggan line and everybody out front the hot chocolate stand. He waves 'hi' to the ice sculptors and tells the ticket takers chasing him down that he's "just passing through."
The rest of us slog out down the road with our boots on. Mom rolls her
eyes and says Dad's probably hypoglycemic. Other than that she's not
concerned. She swings around, skis in hand, to let me
know this and takes out three school children on the curb waiting to board their
Here's a picture of my entire nuclear family crashed into each other on a logging trail circa 2006. I like the logger in the background, looking on with WTF written all over his face.
My brother is pancaked there in the front. Attempting to skate ski on an ungroomed trail, he got his. I felt no sympathy. The depicted event transpired the day after Nutchie skied in front of me, backwards, the entire way down a mountain griping that I really needed to pick it up some for the sake of propriety, appearances and lifetime total distance.