unsung heroes
By Carrol susan

My husband and I were having a very good day cross country skiing – blue skies with freshly groomed trails on top of four feet of snowfall from the night before. The boys were at the mountain skiing with friends. We had the day to ourselves.

We tend to bring our lunch, a holdover from skiing with young boys who were always hungry. We drove up from Oakland the night before, planning to shop for food after skiing. Today we would lunch at the Warming Hut.

I love to ski to all the huts, first to Equipe, then to Bjornloppet, followed by Osborne Ridge, ending with the Warming Hut. That morning, I only made it to the first two huts. When we reached the Bjornloppet Hut, my grumbling stomach redirected my route to the Warming Hut for Harvey’s almost burnt, grilled cheese sandwich...so good, especially with tomato and bacon. When my husband asked me if I wanted to head towards Osborne Ridge, I politely declined. All I could think about was the grilled cheese sandwich.

I was a confident skier, not fast or graceful, but confident. I could climb and descend most terrain without worry. The quickest way to the Warming Hut was down the Bjornloppet Hill – short, steep, and sweet with a long forgiving runway. As I started down the hill, I noticed a large, human-sized divot in the center of the trail. I steered to the right to avoid the divot, and my right ski punched through the corduroy, and I pitched forward as my foot and ankle stayed behind. The heal and the mind were free, but the skis and body remained together. My boot did not release from the binding, so that my foot would fall with the rest of my body. The rest was physics.

After the fall, I found myself at the inflection between the bottom of the hill and the long forgiving runway, a bit shaken but okay, or so I thought. I really wanted Harvey’s grilled cheese sandwich. As I stood up, a fellow skier stopped to see if I was hurt. Unsung hero number one. Checking in on your fellow skiers is a small kindness that makes skiing at Bear Valley safe. He said I was going fast when I fell. I thanked him and said I was fine. He glided away while I dusted the snow off my ski togs.

The pain started when I tried to move. I could not put weight on my left foot. There was no way I could skate. As I mentioned, the Bjornloppet Hill opens to a large meadow of easy, popular trails with many skiers this holiday weekend. I was not alone, but I did not ask for help. People skied by without much notice – I was standing after all. I told myself it was probably only a sprain. My heart was set on Harvey’s grilled cheese sandwich. If I could make it to the Warming Hut, I could ice my ankle with a bag of snow while Harvey did his magic. He liked to grill the bread until it was close to being burnt without being burnt. Was this by design or due to short attention span, it is not for me to say

Long skate poles come in handy when a skier wants a cheese sandwich, can’t put weight on her left foot, and doesn’t ask for help. I slowly double poled towards the Warming Hut. Did it hurt? Yes, it did! I slowly moved beyond Orvis Meadow towards the Warming Hut. I’m not sure how far this is, maybe a kilometer, maybe two. At the time I was wondering why no one asked me if I needed help. Some skiers passed me twice in Orvis Meadow. It is not unusual to double pole on flat terrain. But I was limp-double poling to minimize pain in my left foot - not normal. Did I ask for help? No, I did not.

By the time I reached the bridge over Bloods Creek, a good distance still from the Warming Hut and my grilled cheese sandwich, and an even greater distance from the trailhead. The bridge is not the best place to stop with cold creek water just below, but I could not go any farther. I looked around. I saw several moms cajoling their kids. I’ve been one of those moms, their hands are full. They would be no help to me today. I was on the verge of tears trying to decide if I should continue to the Warming Hut or to the trailhead.

I looked around once more and, in the distance, I saw a graceful skier quickly approaching. Unsung hero number two. As the skier got closer, I recognized her: Kimi Johnson, a sigh of relief, she could help. I’ve known Kimi for as long as I’ve been skiing at Bear Valley. First as a co-founder of the Telemark Festival and Mountain Adventure Seminars and then as a fellow parent where we would catch up with each other's lives on the cross country trails.

Kimi acted quickly and with kindness. She gently moved me off the bridge so that I was safe, helped me out of my skis, and maybe loosened or removed my boot, I can’t remember. I whispered to her that I was about to fall apart, which I proceeded to do. Knowing that I needed help, she skied to the Warming Hut to radio the trailhead. Just as Kimi skied off, a friend and her daughter approached and kept me company while I waited. Soon enough, I was on a snowmobile heading for the store, bypassing the Warming Hut and Harvey’s grilled cheese sandwich. It was going to be a long day.

The shop was busy, filled with families excited to play in the snow, renting their skis and sleds. You’ve all been in the shop. It’s small, with just enough room to register the skiers, size their gear, and get them on their merry way. There is no injury room. So, there I sat, propped up on a bench, in pain with tears streaming down my face, while the staff guessed if I’d broken a bone or not. I felt bad that the skiers had to see me in such a state of distress. They came to the mountains to have fun, and they were greeted by me.

Where is my husband, you ask? He was on the ridge. Where else would he be? Does he have his cell phone with him? Afraid not. He was going to meet me at the Warming Hut for lunch.

Enter unsung hero number three. Paul Petersen, recently retired and former owner of the cross country center, tended to my injury. It is difficult to describe the calming influence Paul brought to my state of mind. First, he told the staff that he was here to help his friend. Then he wanted to know how much pain I was experiencing. And the funny part, at least funny to me, was he wanted to know if the tears were a true measure of my pain. Picture the pain charts in a doctor’s office. The pain charts scale from a green happy face for no pain, to a red face with tears for the most pain possible. I laughed - my pain did not match my face. I was more in the orange zone with a strained grimace at level 6 or 7, nowhere near level 10, as my emotions suggested.

Paul then looked at my ankle and explained that the fibula, the thin bone next to the shinbone or tibia, can break from falls like mine. I appreciated the information. It was a simple fact. The fibula can break. I’m a scientist - I liked facts. At that moment I realized that it probably wasn’t a sprain. I opened my day pack and ate a handful of trail mix. I was not going to hear the music blaring while I waited for Harvey to make a grilled cheese sandwich at the Warming Hut.

Paul put on a temporary splint made of cardboard, secured with duct tape, and loaned me well-worn crutches that were several sizes too small. Once the ankle and leg were immobilized and the ibuprofen kicked in, the pain was manageable. My husband fetched the boys from the mountain, I hobbled toward the car, and we headed down the hill – the boys to the cabin and me to urgent care in Angels Camp. X-rays confirmed a fractured fibula and the end of my skiing season. I would have to wait until next season to enjoy Harvey’s grilled cheese sandwich.

I can’t imagine not skiing. I venture down the Bjornloppet Hill only once or twice a year, when conditions are perfect, perfect for me. When I do, I close my eyes, take three deep breaths, listen to the peaceful silence, thank my heroes, open my eyes and ski downhill.