A White Christmas

Dreaming of a White Christmas? Might want to move north. But I do have some snowy thoughts I’d like to share.

I learned to ski as a young teen. I was enthralled by the freedom and speed it offered me. And that was on pitiful ski slopes, mostly at Sky Valley Resort in Georgia! But that’s a story you can read in my archives.

This column is about my senior year in college when I traveled with the Georgia Tech Ski Club. I saw a sign in the student athletic center promoting a ski trip to Aspen, Colorado, and whatever the price, it was affordable to me. I didn’t know it was the first year of the ski club, and I didn’t know anyone in the club, but I went anyway. The trip was during Christmas break, December 1980.

We flew Delta to Aspen, which still has a scary airport location today. I had four assigned bunkmates, and we all ended up skiing together. Sadly, I don’t recall any of their names but we had a great time. Obviously the mountains were the biggest I’d ever seen, never mind skied down.

There is nothing quite like a young male’s innate lack of fear. You’d think plummeting down really steep mountains would be scary, but I just remember the exhilaration. We skied all day, ate dinner, and slept all night. There was no partying that I recall.

On the third day, we were really feeling our oats. We built a ramp over a running creek and jumped the creek on our runs down that slope. On the last run, as sunlight faded and the lifts shut down, we had a contest as to who could go the furthest off the ramp. I verified that the winner didn’t have to stick the landing. I straightened my skis and hit the ramp hard, so hard that my right ski stuck in the ramp, but I kept going. I landed awkwardly on the left ski and crashed, but I won the contest.

I severely sprained my right ankle in the process, but I wobbled down the rest of the slope because I had no choice, we were about to depart. When I took off my ski boot, my ankle swelled up like a basketball. There was no time to get medical attention, so despite the pain, I boarded the jet home. Delta actually gave me crutches and let me keep them. Aspirin and Coca-Cola was my medicine. When I got off the plane, my Dad and sister were waiting, with no idea I was injured.

In 2014, Mary Ann’s son, Anthony, invited me to go with him on the same trip at Tech, this time to Steamboat. The ski club founder was thrilled I was there, and that was when I learned I was on the inaugural trip all those years prior.

Fortunately I never was seriously injured again skiing. I did some sketchy stuff, but generally I figured that speed overcame most problems. Among my friends, I hold the speed record at 74.1 mph. Because if you’re going to get hurt, do it spectacularly.

Merry Christmas!

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta where he graduated from Georgia Tech, and Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music, and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren. To see this column or Kelly’s archives, visit www.kellyrburke.com. You can email Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com.