Humans of the Lodge: Aprés ER
I apologize for the radio silence this week. Came down with a nasty stomach flu on Sunday which I’m largely attributing to a lukewarm mystery shot that came in a container shaped like a sperm. My buddy so generously got me that bachelorette party favor for my birthday and it went down exactly like you’d imagine. I recovered enough to get myself to Utah for a weekend of skiing and shenanigans.
Little did I know, my medical woes were just beginning…
Humans of the Lodge: Aprés ER
My stomach troubles more or less behind me, I embarked to Snowbasin Mountain in Utah for my first day of real skiing. As I stared out the window of the car looking at an endless blur of strip mall massage parlors and Karl Malone Chevy Dealerships, I pondered two things:
This state would be absolutely fucked if skiing wasn’t a thing
Was I up to the challenge of skiing in Utah?
The latter was a valid concern. I've only been skiing maybe 7-8 times in my life and the mountains here are no joke. However, I had some confidence in my newfound skill and was cautiously excited for the challenge. After all, I’m Apowllo, the Greek God of Pow — what could possibly go wrong? What a dumb bitch I was.
We headed up to embark on a green beginner’s run called Slo Ride. It started off well enough. But then things started speeding up — quickly, as we hit an open stretch of mountain that was as steep as it was slick. This was decidedly not a ‘slo ride’.
It wasn’t until later that we realized we had inadvertently turned onto a harder trail, but by then it was too late.
Now remember, I do not ski. Never did growing up. Do not know any of the rules about skiing or how you’re supposed to move. Therefore, I did not know that to limit my speed, I should aim to cut as hard as I can to each side in a wide S motion. The quick ice-skating-like gliding I was accustomed to is perfectly fine on a more level surface or gradual downhills. But on a severe incline, it’s a deathwish.
The consequence: I was FLYING down this mountain at what friends estimate was about 30 mph. The seasoned skiers in my group realized I didn’t have the knowhow to slow down or stop and frantically tried to chase after me. They couldn’t even get close; that’s how fast I was moving. Up ahead was a sharp 90 degree turn to the left, a turn I knew I couldn’t make.
To my left was a patch of softer, less packed snow which I reasoned might slow me down. I turned ever so slightly and aimed for it.
At 30+ mph I hit this patch of powder. Here’s what happened next, as my friends behind me tell it: My skis jammed in the soft stuff and launched me out of the bindings. I don’t remember my skis jamming; I just remember hitting the ground — hard.
My right side came down with a thud, taking a bigger impact than my body ever had before. Next the left side of my head came down, smacking forcefully against the powder (thank God for helmets). For the next several seconds, my only visual was an alternating quick cut of snow and sky, snow and sky, snow and sky as if someone was rapidly switching between slideshow images. For context, below is what I assume it looked like; it’s certainly how it felt.
20 FEET LATER, I finally skidded to a stop, my goggles fogged over with fresh powder. My heart rate was probably about 175 from pure adrenaline. I was breathing as heavily as I have after any workout class/minor staircase. I wiggled my arms and legs to make sure I still had feeling in both. Thankfully I do.
I threw a thumbs up to let the crew know I was ok but I must have been pretty deeply embedded because none of them saw it and they all thought I was dead. Eventually my breathing slowed to normal and I was able to get up and do another run.
Soon however, I noticed that my left index finger was bugging me. I took my hand out of my glove and saw a finger that was about 1.5x the size of its right-handed counterpart and painful to the touch. I reasoned it would be best to take a break and get it checked out.
I went to the medical hut and they said I had to be evaluated by ski patrol first. The ski patroller was a very nice man who took down my story and examined my finger. I told him I’m a big guy and am used to taking a hit, but this one was especially brutal. Based on this comment, he asked if I was football player. Not wanting him to know that I take a lot of hits cause I just run into shit, I lied and said yes. When he asked what position I played, I instinctively responded “nose tackle.”
Why I created this pointless lie and then assigned myself the fattest position is beyond me. (I think I just like lying idk). Regardless, we bonded over my fabricated and weirdly detailed backstory.
His assessment was that I just jammed the finger, likely when I braced myself for impact, but it wasn’t broken or fractured. The receptionist who is also apparently a self-proclaimed athletic trainer concurred with this diagnosis saying that if I had fractured the finger then I wouldn’t be able to flick the tip (pause) without a shockwave of pain reverberating throughout the entire finger. This is decidedly the least informed medical advice I’ve ever been given.
My football brother in arms also then said, shockingly, that the finger wasn’t swollen so it couldn’t be broken. Not only was the finger now swollen to about twice its normal size, the underside had begun turning purple.
I figured they were just nice hippies giving their uneducated guesses so I took an ice pack, declined to see a doctor, and went on my aprés way.
About 2 hours later, my friends returned to the lodge for their lunch break. My roommate’s little sister aka also my little sister is a nurse who has broken several fingers for some reason. She took one look at it and said, “that’s broken, you need to go back to the medical hut.”
I went back and was greeted with the two chillest doctors I’m likely to ever encounter. One of the residents had to call them to come in to the office. I thought this meant they were tending to someone on the mountain or on call at home. Nope, they were just out shredding gnar.
For the finger, they brought in a doctor who was so fresh off the mountain that he was examining me in snow pants. This is without a doubt the coolest residency a doctor can aspire to.
He ordered an X-Ray, which revealed sadly, that my left index finger indeed had a minor break.
I was the only patient in this clinic so all the doctors were hanging out with me and shooting the shit as we examined the X-Ray. Even the ski patrol guy who couldn’t correctly identify swelling was there. He was concerned about my wellbeing to the point that I think he’s either my estranged father or desperately trying to hook up with me. Nice guy though. Maybe would.
Sophia, the nurse/my little sister, came to check on me and cellied in the face of the doctor after she correctly diagnosed the break before him. Given the circumstances, it was a pretty chill vibe.
The docs gave me a splint and athletic tape and sent me on my way to heal. The next few weeks will be difficult given that I type only with my index fingers and write things for both a living and hobby.
However, I consider myself lucky to have walked away from that crash with only a minor finger break. Given my speed and the fact that the edge of the slope was about 200 feet up from where I fell, it could have been much worse.
Sidenote: maybe don’t have slope edges that fall off 100 feet on beginner trails.
Plus, I got to meet some pretty cool medical personnel and really nice but ill-informed non-medical personnel. And that’s what lodge life is really all about at the end of the day.
Apowllo is shut down on the slopes — for now — but he will be back with a vengeance next year with 10 healthy fingers and a renewed vigor. And broken finger or not, the vibes are still so steez.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get my revenge by fracking that mountain for all its natural resources.
