While I was in college, spring break of my senior year was spent skiing in Colorado. The weather that April was fair and warm. In that snowy, high elevation environment, the sunny afternoons were sublimely comfortable, almost hot, chasing skiers into lightweight clothing. And many young women were skiing in swimwear to get a jump on their summer tans. I've always considered that a strange juxtaposition: bare skin set against a backdrop of mountain snowfields.
On Thursday afternoon, I was skiing a black diamond run which, due to the warm weather and hordes of spring break skiers, had deteriorated into a minefield of moguls, ice, and crud, the latter, wet heavy snow. Two college girls shot past, the brunette leading the way in a racer-back teal one-piece and the sassy blonde in a hot pink string bikini that barely covered her bits. Both exhibited expert technique: short, precise, lightning-quick turns in the valleys between moguls and wherever pattern changes dictated, over the crests and down the backsides. Despite their talent, in my opinion they were going way too fast for the marginal conditions.
A short distance ahead, bikini girl caught an inside edge on a mound of crud and
BAM!
fell hard on her left side. Instinctively, I slowed. She slid on a patch of ice then vaulted off the crest of a monster mogul, sending her hurtling through space, her arms and legs flailing. I slowed further. She crashed to earth with a sickening
THUD!
then tumbled head-over-heels down the mountain in a flurry of flying snow. Both skis popped out of their bindings, whirling away like helicopters. Skiers riding the chairlift above cut loose with a collective gasp. The violence of the crash was staggering.
She slowed, rolled one last time, then came to a halt on her back on the uphill side of a mogul in the middle of the run. I turned my skis across the fall line and skidded to a halt to see if I could render aid. She wasn't moving. She appeared to be unconscious. Someone riding the lift overhead hollered, "I'll call the ski patrol." The girl's friend didn't see the crash and consequently, didn't stop; she was somewhere way down the mountain.
The girl's equipment was gone; skis, poles and sunglasses, but those weren't the only items missing. So was her string bikini. Well, mostly; the top was AWOL and the brief, undone on the left side, was reduced to an ankle bracelet around her right boot. Her creamy white bikini shadow strongly suggested those patches of private flesh had never seen the light of day. Many times I've skied the Rockies during warm spring weather and seen bikini-clad young women take minor falls, oftentimes resulting in nip slips and butt crack exposure. Always, they laughed it off. All in good fun. But never before had I witnessed virtual nakedness in the aftermath of a crash.
Sprawled on her back, she was motionless.
"You okay?" I shouted. No response.
I released my skis from their bindings then, just uphill, rammed the tails into the snow to warn approaching skiers of the hazard. While I was doing that, she stirred, propped herself on one elbow, then tried to shake snow out of her short, shaggy blonde hair. Her neatly coifed pubis confirmed she was a natural blonde. I knelt beside her. "You okay?" This time she responded to my voice; she looked at me hollow-eyed, in shock, it seemed. And she seemed unaware of her exposure.
