That time I fell off a ski lift

Ever wonder how it would feel to fall off a ski lift?

I used to—until it happened to me.

I was 18 and a freshman in college. In fulfillment of my "Physical Education" requirement, I had enrolled in a downhill skiing course, which consisted of eight weekly lessons, every Saturday, on the slopes near Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.

At over six feet tall and with unusually long legs and a short torso—in other words, a high center of gravity—I'm not well built for skiing. But for the first five weeks of class, I held my own and managed to keep from falling or doing anything terribly embarrassing. I usually skied with my dorm RA (resident assistant), Ron Starker, a nice guy with a good sense of humor and a great laugh. We were friends then and still are today. (You'll soon understand why I felt it important to establish that up front.)

On the sixth Saturday, Ron and I were riding the ski lift together, as usual, and looking forward to skiing on our own for a change, without the instructor. The instructor had told us she thought we were good enough to take on one of the more challenging slopes by ourselves, and we were determined to prove her right.

As the ski lift approached the jump-off point, Ron and I got ready to exit our chair and set off on our adventure. But then something happened. As Ron stood up and dismounted the chair, the chair bounced back up and smacked me in the butt, causing me to lose my balance just as I was trying to dismount. I remember seeing Ron ski off to safety as I was tumbling backward and down, down, down into the snow-lined depression around the base of the massive steel turnaround pylon.

I landed on my back in the snow—just enough snow, apparently, to break my fall and not my back. I wasn't sure if I was dead or alive, but my eyes were open and I could feel my limbs, so I figured there was a good chance I had survived the fall, although I wasn't sure how.

The ski lift stopped, and frantic faces started appearing all around the rim of the pylon hole, peering downward at me. One of them asked if I was OK, and I said "I think so." I really wasn't sure, because I had, after all, FALLEN OFF A SKI LIFT. Do people survive such things?

Within what seemed like seconds, the Ski Patrol showed up. (Ironically, just two years earlier my rock band had played a Ski Patrol benefit dance at Timberline Lodge. Maybe these guys were among the attendees—and beneficiaries?) Within a few more seconds, they somehow managed to send a couple of guys down into the hole with a stretcher, strap me onto it, and hoist me up to the surface. I told them I felt fine, but they wanted to make sure I hadn't broken anything or suffered a concussion or internal injuries. So I waited patiently (what else could I do?) while they checked me over...and over...and over, with two dozen faces—including Ron's—peering anxiously down at me.

And with the ski lift motionless above me, full of people wanting to get started skiing.

It was excruciatingly embarrassing.

Finally deemed intact, I was released from the stretcher and got back on my feet. I think there was some applause, but I'm fuzzy on the details after this point because I was 100% focused on just getting the hell out of there. I strapped on my skis, nodded to Ron that I was ready to go, and off we went toward the slopes.

The easy slopes.

A Timberline Lodge skier who probably didn't fall off the ski lift.
(Photo: tripadvisor.co.uk)