Hangover on the Slopes

The craic on the chairlift

A klaxon blared as the lift ground to a halt. There we lay - a pile of Paddies, colorful jackets, tangled skis, and muffled groans. Snow sprayed up around us as we wiggled and squirmed, trying to extricate ourselves. The lift operator, having seen it all before, deftly rescued a renegade ski with a well-placed kick.

As I struggled to my feet, I reflected on how I had ended up here. This had seemed like a good idea last night in the pub. Not always my best decision-making, that.

I was in Seattle working on a project team with a bunch of Irish lads. Our weekends followed a familiar pattern: Saturday work until around 6, then gather for dinner. Wild Ginger downtown was a regular favorite. Afterward, we'd head to the Owl and Thistle in Pioneer Square—a real Irish bar with just the right mix of lively and seedy, conveniently located two blocks from our lodgings. We'd play pool, drink plenty, and talk shite late into the night. Sunday, we'd recover and chill out.

One Saturday, as we were nursing our pints, Ronan, our resident ski expert, suggested we hit the slopes the next day. He'd been skiing in Europe since he was a teenager and was eager to show us the ropes. "It's easy," he assured us.

"Sounds like great craic," I said, my enthusiasm outweighing my inexperience. "Knock me up in the morning."

I had made a promise to myself to try as many new experiences as I could. This trip to Seattle had been a whirlwind of adventures, and I loved it.

I stumbled back to my apartment and crashed on the couch.

Sunday morning arrived with a savage pounding on my door that echoed through my skull like a jackhammer. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool, and my mouth tasted like I'd been licking the bar floor. I cracked open one eye, immediately regretting it as the dim light sent daggers of pain through my brain. I glanced at my watch, the numbers swimming before my eyes as I realized I needed to pack for skiing. When I opened the door there stood Ronan, grinning with irritating cheerfulness.

We all stayed in the same apartment building, some on the same floor. I had an apartment to myself, it was my first time living by myself. I had always lived with other people. We gathered up Kevin and Paul and headed to the rental car. Ronan took the wheel; he knew the mountains. I'm from Kildare, and I didn't know how to drive. Living in Dublin, I just took the bus everywhere.

We drove out of town along I-90 to Snoqualmie Pass. The sight that greeted us was breathtaking—a true winter wonderland with snow blanketing everything, the morning sun turning the landscape into a glittering sea. The stark white snow contrasted sharply with the deep green of the pine trees, their branches sagging under the weight of the snow. I'd never seen anything like it, though the brightness of the snow felt like it was searing my retinas.

Cars streamed into the parking lot, the crunch of tires on snow mixing with the excited chatter of families unloading gear. The excitement of kids dragging inner tubes made my inner child giddy with anticipation, while my outer adult suppressed the urge to vomit. The crisp air carried the aroma of coffee, which both tempted and revolted my queasy stomach.

At the rental shop, we got kitted out with an array of gear. I felt like a million bucks in my new sunglasses and jester-type hat. "This skiing thing is great craic altogether," I thought to myself.

We emerged from the shop, smiling and laughing. Ronan explained the ski lift procedure: "We get on with our skis on. Time it right when the big four-seat bucket comes along. We sit down, and whoosh—we're airborne. When we get to the top, just stand up, and your skis will take you away from the seat as you turn the corner."

It sounded straightforward enough. I had no idea what he meant, but I figured it would make sense when the time came. As we wobbled towards the ski lift, we looked like a herd of particularly unsteady penguins.

Getting on the ski lift was just like Ronan had said, easy peasy. We rose up into the air, my stomach lurched, and my forehead beaded with sweat. The chair swayed gently, my legs, weighed down by the unfamiliar skis, dangled uselessly.

I don't really like heights, and this was an unsettling feeling, made worse by my fragile state. We were now 40 or 50 feet in the air with our feet dangling below us. The bucket was swaying back and forth as Kevin and Paul were twisting and turning to get a good view, each movement sending waves of nausea through me. I was holding on to the icy metal chair with a death grip, the cold biting into my gloved hands.

As the ski lift neared the summit, we novice skiers tensed with anticipation. The "Unload Here" sign loomed ahead, a harbinger of impending chaos.

First off was Kevin, who stood up too early and immediately lost his balance. His skis crossed, and he tumbled forward with a yelp. Ronan, right behind him, tried to dodge but caught an edge on Kevin's outstretched pole. He pirouetted ungracefully before collapsing atop Kevin.

I was determined to avoid their fate but hesitated a split second too long. The chair bumped me from behind, launching me face-first into the growing pile of limbs and equipment. My new jester hat flew off, landing in a nearby snowbank.

Last came Paul, who might have made it if not for the tangle of skis and poles before him. He managed two whole seconds of upright skiing before tripping over my legs. With a resigned sigh, he joined the heap.

As I lay there, tangled in a mess of limbs and equipment, my mind drifted back to how we'd ended up in this predicament. Just as the memory of last night's pints faded, a klaxon blared, snapping me back to the present as the lift ground to a halt.

The lift operator, barely containing his laughter, shouted over our chorus of Irish expletives, "First time, lads?"

"Welcome to the top," he deadpanned, offering a gloved hand to help us up. "Enjoy your run." His eyes twinkled with amusement, probably imagining the spectacular wipeouts awaiting us at the bottom.

"Well, that was graceful," Paul muttered, brushing snow off his jacket. "If skiing doesn't work out, we could always join the circus as the world's clumsiest acrobats."

We shook off the snow and gathered ourselves as Ronan gave us a quick lesson. "Put your skis together to go fast," he said. "Use your body weight to steer. The poles are mostly for balance." With that, he took off down the hillside like a pro.

The rest of us exchanged nervous glances, a mixture of anticipation and dread coursing through our veins.

Then Kevin's eyes lit up, like a child promised extra dessert. "Last one down buys the first round," he declared, already imagining himself as the next Olympic champion.

Kevin went first, then Paul, and finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath, my heart pounding.

I pushed off, and for a brief, glorious moment, I felt like I was flying. The initial thrill was exhilarating—the speed, the rush of cold air against my face, the swoosh of my skis cutting through the snow. A grin spread across my face as I thought, "I'm doing it! I'm actually skiing!"

But as I picked up speed, the trees on either side of the run started to blur. My heart, which had been racing with excitement, now hammered with panic. How do I slow down? The question screamed in my mind, but my body seemed frozen, unable to remember Ronan's instructions.

I overtook Paul, who looked as terrified as I felt. Ahead, I could see Kevin, his form growing larger as I rapidly closed the distance between us. My eyes widened in horror as I realized I was on a collision course, and I had no idea how to change direction or stop.

"Get out of the way!" I shouted, my voice pitched high with fear. The wind whipped the words away, but Kevin must have heard something because he glanced back.

"I can't!" Kevin yelled back, his own panic evident in his voice.

Time seemed to slow down as I approached Kevin. My muscles tensed, bracing for impact. In that moment, I was certain I was about to experience my first ski crash on my very first run.

My skis ran right over the back of his skis. I caught a whiff of pure fear as I heard the clap and scrape of our skis. He managed to stay upright. Somehow, I managed to get my speed under control and made it to the bottom in one piece.

My heart was pounding as I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill. The adrenaline coursing through my veins cleared my hangover instantly.

Skiing, I realized, is both terrifying and addictive. Despite the chaos, I couldn't wait to do it again.