A lot of us ski alone. If the choice is skiing alone or not skiing, guess what is going to happen. But sometimes you get a reminder that the warning has merit.
Today, in blustery winds, Peter the Great was hit in the face by a falling tree. It knocked off his glasses, broke his nose, lacerated his face and knocked him to the ground so quickly he actually said he didn't know what hit him.
This did not stop him from skiing the seven or eight kilometers back to the lodge. He looked kind of rough, but was as cheery as ever.
The tree was about six or eight inches in diameter, according to his pantomimed gesture. He said it landed in the crook of his outstretched arm and on his chest after it scraped down his face.
He had just peeled himself up from the bloody snow when another skier came along. This man happened to be a doctor, who helped Peter fashion a compress to control the bleeding and then accompanied him back to the lodge.
Back at the lodge he got a better patch job from the doctor, using the ski patrol's first aid kit, before he headed out to get a suture or two. Maybe he'll get his nose taped, like tough guys in the movies.
If it had hit the top or back of his head we wouldn't be joking around like this. But we'll all be out there alone again within 12 hours. If I hadn't had a zoning board meeting tonight, I would have skied out to his bloodstain and drawn a chalk body outline for a joke when the groomer comes by.
Stupid meeting.
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