A Broken Leg at Big Birch

Big Birch, now preposterously called Thunder Ridge, was the perfect place to learn to ski — hardly bigger than a leaf pile, easy, empty, and safe.

But when I rounded the hairpin (in my 7-year-old head) turn at supersonic speed (ibid) and hit a patch of grass, my ski stopped dead, my binding failed, and my tibia cracked.

My Dad, a beautiful skier in the early, upright style, raced to my side. He gave his poles, my poles, and my skis to my mother, picked me up by the armpits and took off down the trail, not letting my tears or sobs slow him down.

At ski patrol, he thrust me forward like an offering. "My son broke his leg."

"That's not how we recommend you handle it, sir," was the polite, surprised reply.

It took me years to ski without fear again but I have admired my father's response ever since.

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