It's day three in Davos, -20 degrees Celcius and not a cloud in the sky.
As the Xenophobe's Guide to the Swiss would say, this is a day that even the Swiss go skiing.
(Especially when compared to day two, which kindly featured -30 degrees (-22F) and frigid gusts of wind that happily landed us in the ol' sheep barn turned mountain bar at the summit for the day...)
At any rate, I am absolutely loving it. Until I realise that sunshine and blue skies means that I can actually SEE the run in front of me, and can easily imagine every possible traumatic incident that will surely ocurr. You know, head over heels, wrists snapped back, knees jammed, broken ankles, whiplash, mountain helicopters ...
And so, I sit at the top of what is clearly a life-threatening cliff, three thirds of the way down the run, and try not to start bawling like a baby. Literally. For twenty minutes, during which I desperately explore every possible option:
Walk down? Impossible.
Call for some handsome man to come carry me down? Too likely to end in domestic dispute.
Climb back up the hill and go down the other side? Not without rocket lifters.
Roll down the hill like a little kid? Likely suicide.
And so, on the brink of both tears and a heart attack, and with no other possible option in sight, I scoot down the entire cliff on my booty. For 20 terrifying, butt-numbing mintues, scooting down the hill. Embarassing? Clearly.
And all of this sacrifice, only to discover over a much needed double shot toddy afterward that it was the SAME cliff I had loved going down not once, but 4 times two days before ... when the visibility was so bad that I couldn't see where I was going.
As the Xenophobe's Guide to the Swiss would say, this is a day that even the Swiss go skiing.
(Especially when compared to day two, which kindly featured -30 degrees (-22F) and frigid gusts of wind that happily landed us in the ol' sheep barn turned mountain bar at the summit for the day...)
At any rate, I am absolutely loving it. Until I realise that sunshine and blue skies means that I can actually SEE the run in front of me, and can easily imagine every possible traumatic incident that will surely ocurr. You know, head over heels, wrists snapped back, knees jammed, broken ankles, whiplash, mountain helicopters ...
And so, I sit at the top of what is clearly a life-threatening cliff, three thirds of the way down the run, and try not to start bawling like a baby. Literally. For twenty minutes, during which I desperately explore every possible option:
Walk down? Impossible.
Call for some handsome man to come carry me down? Too likely to end in domestic dispute.
Climb back up the hill and go down the other side? Not without rocket lifters.
Roll down the hill like a little kid? Likely suicide.
And so, on the brink of both tears and a heart attack, and with no other possible option in sight, I scoot down the entire cliff on my booty. For 20 terrifying, butt-numbing mintues, scooting down the hill. Embarassing? Clearly.
And all of this sacrifice, only to discover over a much needed double shot toddy afterward that it was the SAME cliff I had loved going down not once, but 4 times two days before ... when the visibility was so bad that I couldn't see where I was going.
1 comments:
This is why I only briefly entertained the thought of skiing over there. I'm happy to read that you made it down safely!
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