HIT THE SLOPES WITHOUT FEAR

From the moment I saw the X-ray of my crushed knee, I was adamant I would ski again

Ten years ago, I put on a ski suit for the first time. I craved a thrill more extreme than a poolside vacation, but as an adult trying something new, I was a little afraid. I had always harboured a love of the great outdoors, but it was only when I learned how to traverse snow-covered slopes that I realized just how great the outdoors could actually be.

The delight of fresh powder, the crisp air and the joy of gliding toward an alpine town surrounded by panoramic mountain views soon melted away my fears. I was in love. Since then, the sport has granted me access to some of the most stunning destinations on Earth, including the Canadian Rockies, which I now consider my soul place.

But as luck would have it, the sport would also give me the worst moment of my life. Last January, I fell down the mountain at Lake Louise Ski Resort, and what had started out as a birthday trip ended with a journey in a medic’s blood wagon.

At first, I laughed about it. I asked to be carried to the bar and drank tequila sunrises while insisting my friends get the full use of their day pass on the mountain. I didn’t yet know it would be my last hurrah for quite some time: I had shattered my tibial plateau.

After an agonizing flight home to Toronto, I was admitted to hospital, where I remained in isolation on surgical standby (and starvation) for five days. As a result of staff miscommunication, I wasn’t given any medication following my surgery, which bestowed a titanium plate and nine long pins beneath my kneecap. My tolerance for pain is high, but that night I truly remember wanting to die.

The road to recovery was a mental and physical slog. I couldn’t walk for eight weeks. I simply had to sit still and heal, and as a highly active human, this initially seemed beyond my capabilities.

But from the moment I saw the X-ray of my crushed knee, I was adamant I would ski again. In the Rockies, I feel most at home. Skiing is such a graceful way to enjoy the majesty of the mountains. I would not give that up.

However, saying and doing are two different things, and there was a fear niggling in the back of my mind. The injury had threatened my identity for the better part of a year, and I just could not allow it any longer. I wanted my joy back.

So, on New Year’s Day of this year, I boarded a flight, alone, to Calgary at 6:30 a.m. I drove to Fernie Alpine Resort and did what the gremlins in my mind were discouraging me from doing: I clipped on a pair of skis. It was almost a year to the day since my accident.

At first, I felt so nervous, I wanted to be sick. I could hear my worried mother’s voice imploring me not to do this, especially not all by myself.

I did it anyway. I was back in my heartland, ensconced in the peaks of the Rockies and all their radiating magic. Slowly, softly and gently, I made my way down the length of the mountain, reclaiming my identity. Adventure is who I am.

The injury had threatened my identity for the better part of a year, and I just could not allow it any longer. I wanted my joy back