Skiing Blind

Skiing Blind

SKIING BLIND
by Debbie Dickinson

"No, no," I said to Michael, the adaptive ski

instructor at the Wintergreen ski resort in Charlottesville,

Virginia, "I don't think I really need any more adrenalin in

my life. But, anyway, tell me how you handle those blind

skiers, just to satisfy my curiosity."

Michael had just met me, and I could feel that he

wanted to convince me how I needed to add skiing to my life

experience list. He responded, "We attach electrodes to

either side of your head."

"Really! Hmmm," I naively said. I kind of liked the

idea, and I figured it seemed better than being flung around

on the end of a rope.

Michael started laughing along with my friend Stewart

who had been skiing with him that day. Stewart is

brain-injured due to an automobile accident, leaving him

with hemi-plegia and other brain dysfunctions. He remains

an excellent skier. Needless to say, a few days later I

ended up skiing with Michael. He brought along Katie, a

volunteer in the ski program, who would be my guide after he

was through with me.

After Katie had done all the paperwork on my entire

life, out onto the field we went. As we walked out, Katie,

a lovely, warm, and sensitive woman, attempted to reassure

me. Admitting that she had never guided a totally blind

person before, she added that her direction sense was a bit

dyslexic. Oh boy, I thought.

Stewart had raved to me how great an adaptive equipment

ski instructor Michael was. I was a bit worried about

Michael's particular sense of humor, however. I decided to

use my years of meditation to "zone out" of this experience.

I resolved that Michael's voice was clear, loud, and

directive, and therefore all I had to do was focus on it.

This meant using a tremendous amount of concentration, in

order that nothing else distract me. And that meant

stilling my mind, and praying! I couldn't help the rising

feelings of apprehension as I noticed the unbelievable noise

level, and sounds such as I have not heard in 20 years; the

last time I had skied...

I am now 43, diabetic since age eight, and due to a

miscarriage at 27, blind as well. My kidneys have failed

also, but I now have a third kidney, thanks to a transplant.

Now, what really happened on that ski slope? First,

Michael fastened one ski to my boot, and had me walk. Then

he attached a ski to the other boot and had me walk some

more until I felt familiar with the sensation of skis. Next

he showed me how to change to the other side from where I

had been facing. This was done by holding my weight on the

poles on one side, and taking short steps behind the poles

until I was facing the other way. After this he decided I

was ready for the snow-plow. I was amused to hear all the

name changes since I had last skied, such as the "wedge,"

although later on I heard a voice swishing past say, "Don't

do the french fry, honey, but do the pizza."

To teach me this concept called the "wedge," Michael

skied a little way down the slope, turned around and told

Katie to push me. I went straight down and crashed into his

arms, just like I was told. He asked, "What is with the

squinched up face and shut eyes?"

Twice we did this routine, until he declared it was

time for the turns. At this point, figuring fear wasn't

helping, I stopped worrying, and thus began my crisscross

down the slope. Flying down that ski slope, or so it

seemed, I had to adapt very quickly to the changing terrain.

No one was going to stop for me, for I was not wearing any

marker that said I was blind. Back at the ski school

Michael had pulled out a ragged, faded piece of cloth that

was supposed to say "blind skier," but it was so old he

could not even untie the strings holding it together. I

wished that I could have carried my cane, at least.

The experience was ethereal. Michael's voice became

amplified. I noticed my adrenalin was gone, and my body

seemed to disappear, except for a point somewhere near my

navel. It was wonderful: I felt like I was in a tunnel,

the feeling was so strong the walls of that tunnel seemed

tangible. I arrived at the bottom of the beginners' hill,

exhilarated, only to face the next challenge -- the chair

lift. This proved to be yet another peak experience. And off

I went, down the slope again!