Two years ago, I was enjoying a green run with a group of students, when we happened to stop in front of one of the mountain’s less celebrated landmarks: an outdoor restroom. This ADA- (Americans with Disabilities Act) approved facility was a step up from the typical outhouse, in that it was built with a gentle ramp and large door that provided easy access to and from the slopes.

While explaining the finer points of a wedge Christie, I heard yelling and banging coming from inside the men’s room. I called a time-out with the class and went over to investigate. I pushed open the door and standing before me was a fully dressed, 220-pound man standing on antiquated skis, poles in hand. Relieved that someone had finally come along to rescue him, he recanted his story to me.

That morning, Lester jammed his old, rear-entry boots into the bindings, gave them a “click” and shoved off. It wasn’t until “the call of nature” that he discovered that he couldn’t get out of the bindings. With time rapidly running out, Lester spotted the outdoor restroom with a large door. He skied up the ramp, through the door and into the restroom. Through a feat of magic, he managed to turn himself around and back into the stall just in the nick of time. When it came time to leave, Lester realized that the restroom door opened to the inside.

Standing approximately midway on a pair of 215-cm skis, his fingertips were more than a foot short from being able to grasp the doorknob. After numerous failed attempts to reach to door, he finally started banging on the inside of the door with his ski pole in hopes that someone would happen by to rescue him.When I asked him why he didn’t just pull his feet out of his boots and open the door, he shrugged his shoulders and said,“What? And get my socks dirty?”

Anonymous

Anyone that’s enjoyed a fine Italian meal or perhaps a lobster dinner at their favorite seafood restaurant has undoubtedly used a bib. Worn across the front of the chest, bibs are wonderful for keeping stains off your clothes while eating messy foods.

Skiers are also familiar with the concept of the bib. However, unlike the dining accessory, ski bibs are sewn onto the back of ski pants to help skiers stay warm and keep snow out on inclement days. Not everyone, however, fully understands the distinction.

One warm spring day, my client asked me if he could remove his jacket. I agreed that it was probably a good idea. When he took off his jacket, I noticed that he was wearing his bib pants backwards: the bib was on the front.

Struggling to maintain my composure, I asked him if he knew that he had his bibs on backwards. Embarrassed, he said, “You know, I thought it was odd to have the fly in the back. I guess that also explains why it’s been so hard to bend my knees!”

Bill Goldberg

Park City, Utah

During the early 1970’s I was working as supervisor for our ski school. Part of my duties included touring the beginner’s classes and offering assistance when needed.

One morning, I approached a class with a little boy sitting off to the side, away from the others. I asked the instructor if she knew why the young lad was crying. She told me that she didn’t know. He wouldn’t get up off of the snow and he refused to follow the rest of the group. I told the instructor to go on with the rest of the class and I would take care of the boy.

I skied up to the boy and bent down to his level. I said to him, “Hi there, young man. What’s the matter, did you lose your balance?”

“No.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“Not anymore!”

Betty Reid

Bend, Oregon

During the early days of Vail, Tiffany loved to be seen around the après-ski scene in a one piece, striped Bogner ski suit, unzipped down the front to reveal her ample cleavage. She never skied. She just liked to look like she did.

One Friday afternoon, Tiffany was sitting around the bar at Los Amigos as several ski instructors plied her with a never-ending procession of margaritas. Feeling the urge, she pushed herself up to her feet and staggered toward the restroom. Moments after entering the only stall, she passed out with her ski suit bunched down around her ankles.

At the time, there was only one tiny unisex restroom. Barely enough room for one person to occupy at a time. So, after a while, a long line of impatient patrons started banging on the door of the restroom. When they failed to raise a response, they complained to the management.

After several vain attempts to jimmy the lock, one of the waitresses finally managed to open the door where she found Tiffany passed out in the stall. She knew that she would never be able to lift her up on her own, let alone dress her, so she enlisted the help of one of the instructors to remove her.

The two of them managed to get Tiffany to an upright position, pulling her Bogner suit up as far as her waist. As the two continued struggling with the dipsomaniac, the instructor accidentally leaned against the sink, literally knocking it off the wall. This sent an unbridled geyser streaming out of the water pipes, flooding the tiny restroom and the chi-chi restaurant below.

Hastily, the two picked Tiffany up like a sack of potatoes. One got under her legs and the other, her naked topside as they hauled her through the center of the cheering crowd and out the door.

About fifteen minutes later, a squeaky-clean middle-aged gentleman in a Scandia ski sweater sidled up to the bar and sat down. Clearly out of place amongst the rowdy collection of locals, he nervously scanned the room. Finally, he said to the bartender, “Excuse me. My name Herbert Llewellyn and I was supposed to meet my daughter, Tiffany here. Have you seen her?”

The bartender paused for a moment, then replied, “Why yes, I just saw her go out the door about 15 minutes ago.”

Katie Gaylord

Vail, Colorado

We didn’t always have November snow in Minneapolis. There were no guarantees for December, either. If we didn’t have snow by the first week in January, we would really start to get nervous and have to resort to some very creative measures just to get our mountain open for business.

One year, we had an inordinately large number of students register in advance for ski school classes. And it still hadn’t snowed. So, for the first few days, we put them into their equipment and had them walk around on dry land. As the week progressed, it was obvious to everyone, including the students, that we wouldn’t be seeing snow any time soon.

Back in the days before the snowmaking machine, desperate times called for desperate measures.

About ten miles from our resort, the Minneapolis Park board operated an ice skating rink on what was usually a pond during the rest of the year. In order to smooth out the skating surface, they would shave the surface of the pond with a makeshift Zamboni, pushing the ice shavings to the side of the rink.

We came up with the idea of hauling all of those ice shavings out to our resort and spreading them over the grass. Then, we’d smooth them out and our guests would be able to ski on them. During one of the classes on the shavings, a young girl hit something in the ice and took a nasty fall. I rushed over to the fallen student to see if she was all right.

The girl said, “I fell on a fish head!” I looked at her and said, “Excuse me, sweetheart? You fell on a what?” Once again, the young girl insisted, “I fell on a F-I-S-H H-E-A-D.”

Apparently, when the park maintenance workers gathered up the ice shavings from the pond, a fish frozen in the water came with it. With the help of a truck, the fish had migrated to our resort to become part of the beginner’s terrain.

Jimmy Johnston

Naples, Florida

In the early days of skiing, people often had problems with their anklebones rubbing against the inside of their leather boots. The remedy was to put a “donut” over the affected area. Donuts were made of a thick rubber material with a hole in the middle and had an adhesive backing so that you could stick them directly to your skin.

One day, a group of instructors were enjoying lunch with their classes at Mid-Vail when one of the students complained that her boots were hurting her. Thinking it might be a wrinkle in her sock, I asked her to take off her boots so I could have a look. As she pulled off her boot, a handful of crumbs fell out onto the floor.

Puzzled, I asked, “What’s this coming out of your boot?”

“Well,” she said, “The last time I took a lesson here, I told the instructor my ankles were rubbing against the inside of my boots.”

“He told me to stick a donut on them.”

Bob Gagne

Vail, Colorado

One of the women in my group complained to her husband that she was in dire need of a restroom. He told her not to worry, that he was sure there was relief waiting at the top of the lift in the form of a powder room for female skiers in distress. He was wrong, of course, and the discomfort did not go away. If you've ever had nature hit its panic button, then you know that a temperature of 12 degrees below doesn't help matters.

With time quickly running out, the woman weighed her options. Her husband, picking up on the intensity of her pain, suggested that since she was wearing an all-white ski outfit, she should go off in the woods and no one would even notice. He assured her that the white would provide more than adequate camouflage. So, she headed into the trees, began lowering her ski pants and proceeded to do her thing.

If you've ever parked on the side of a slope, then you know there is a right way and wrong way to position your skis so you don't slide. Stand with your skis across the fall line and you’re safe. Stand with them in the fall line and you’re not. Steep slopes are the least forgiving, even during the most embarrassing moments. She learned this concept the hard way.

Without warning, the woman found herself racing backward, through the trees. Somehow, she missed hitting all of them and shot onto a high-traffic slope in front of a class of beginners. With her derriere still bare and her pants down around her knees, she rapidly began picking up speed. Continuing for nearly 100 yards, the naked projectile streaked across the children’s area, back under the lift and finally, collided violently with a pylon. The bad news was that she broke her arm and was unable to pull up her ski pants.

At long last, her husband arrived, put an end to her nudie show and summoned the ski patrol, where they transported her to the hospital. While in the emergency room, a man with an obviously broken leg was put in the bed next to hers. "So, how'd you break your leg?" she asked, making small talk.

"It was the darndest thing you ever saw," he said. "I was riding up this ski lift and suddenly I couldn't believe my eyes. There was this crazy woman skiing backward, out of control down the mountain, with her bare bottom hanging out of her clothes and her pants down around her knees. I leaned over to get a better look and fell out of the lift."

"So, how'd you break your arm?"

Anonymous

* This story has been circulating throughout the skiing community for so many years that it’s impossible to identify the original author. For the benefit of those that have not heard it, I present it for your pleasure and thank the originator of the tale.