THE SKIER FROM WAY OUT WEST
© Graham Barker 1993
A fearless man from way out west, beyond the blackened stump -
where men are tough and never shy from dangers -
had on the grapevine heard it said a record massive dump
of snow had graced the eastern mountain ranges.
His lusting for a challenge was aroused by this fresh calling
that beckoned him to ski down snow-clad trails,
so straight away he flew to where the snow was thickest falling;
to Thredbo alpine village, New South Wales.
The fearless man from way out west surveyed the bustling scene
of speeding crowds of skiers having fun,
and brushing snowflakes from his youthful face, well-groomed and clean,
he thought out loud "I'll show 'em how its done".
He coolly strode to where the chairlifts start their lengthy trek
up mountains heaped with snow to overflowing
then paused a while to deftly twirl a scarf around his neck
and tie it in a knot (a gale was blowing).
Attired with bushman's hat, bright pink and aqua gore-tex suit
and on his racing skis - looking resplendant -
the man from way out west did up his favourite Dachstein boots
and glided neatly to the lift attendant,
but being quite experienced with skiers and their ways,
this lift attendant smelled a rat, and spake it:
"This chairlift serves the steepest, toughest slopes in this resort;
are you convinced you've got the skills to make it?"
The grin beneath the bushman's hat was rapid to dissolve,
replaced by growing snarls of indignation
as insulted, the great skier strengthened his resolve
and boomed "My boy, your underestimation
of my skiing aptitude is without any grounds
and would offend my ego, if I had one;
I'll have you know my skills are well-advanced, supremely sound:
as skiers go, I'm more than just a good one."
The liftie tried to answer, but the man from way out west
continued to defend his reputation:
"I may not be a local, but I've skied the very best
and steepest skifield slopes in this great nation.
I've skied at Falls Creek, Mt Blue Cow, Guthega, Smiggins Holes,
at Perisher, Mt Buller and Mt Hotham,
and no matter where I've bent my knees and gripped my poles,
I've skied without a fault from top to bottom."
Perceiving opportunity, the lift attendant said,
"I may have judged you wrong, I don't deny it,
so how about a wager for the hat upon your head -
you sound a good safe bet, so why not try it?
If you can ski back down that trail in four minutes, no more,
I'll gladly give you one week's ski-lift ticket,
but if you need more time than that to ski back through that door
I'll confiscate your bushman's hat and keep it!"
"You're on!", replied the fearless man whose hat was quickly freed
and given to the lad. "With you I"ll leave it
to save it from the fearful wind created by my speed;
I'll be back very shortly to retrieve it".
At once, the man from way out west dispatched himself by chair,
whisked briskly to the chairlift's destination
atop a bleak forbidding bluff devoid of skiers, where
the best of us would cringe with trepidation.
The lift attendant at the top informed the one below
when fearless man had from the lift alighted,
and shouted loud above the wind, "Your time starts now, so go!"
The wager for the bushman's hat had started.
With eager haste the fearless man from way out west set out
across the snowy brink and then descended
a long steep run (named "Cannonball" quite aptly, it turned out)
with difficulties more than he'd intended.
In vicious gale and falling snow the going was quite rough,
and though the bumps were worse than he'd expected,
he bent his knees and thought out loud "I'm sure I'm tough enough",
just as the route he'd hastefully selected
led out onto a mighty drop that stole away his breath
and formed a sickened feeling in his belly;
he plunged unstoppably straight down a sheer white wall of death
beyond control, with legs that turned to jelly.
He struck the bottom with a crash - spectacular to see -
that formed an impact crater in the hillside,
but his skis remained attached and so, still moving, he
continued to slide downhill on his backside.
The fearless man from way out west began to feel concerned
and just a trifle fearful of the hazard
as, building speed, he cannonballed between giant bumps and turned
towards a grove of trees in full-scale blizzard.
Unable to arrest his speed or stand up on his skis,
the skier let a cry of desperation
slip loosely from his gaping mouth towards the looming trees
he sped towards: a fatal situation.
To salvage pride he made a last attempt to gain control
by rolling on his side to change direction,
but to no avail - he struck a hidden snowy bowl
from which he shot out, airborne with deflection
and sailed between the twisted trunks of snowgums, which he missed
by fractions of a whisker, then he landed
with thundrous thud and came to rest abruptly, with a twist -
he'd fractured both his ankles, single-handed.
The injured man from way out west sat up and scraped the snow
from off his face and, feeling somewhat humbled,
observed with some embarassment his riderless skis go
careering solo down the hill. He grumbled:
"By golly, struth, this wretched slope is steeper than I thought,
too hard to ski in such atrocious weather.
I've never skied before in such a tricky ski resort;
in hindsight now I wish I'd chose another".
The fearless man from way out west continued to complain
of how his skiing bet had sadly ended,
while stretcher-bearers gathered round and carried him, in pain,
down to the first aid shelter to be mended.
And meanwhile, at the mountain's base, the lift attendant read
his watch and saw four minutes had expired
without the man's return - with joy he placed upon his head
the bushman's hat he'd won, as he desired.
Then, opening a cupboard door that bore this bible truth:
that "He who shall exalt himself be humbled",
he stored the hat atop a pile extending to the roof
of hats from skiers who had likewise tumbled,
for skiers' heads are often swelled with over-confidence
and lack of due respect for skiing's challenge;
this fact the liftie took advantage of by making bets -
for which the man from way out west vowed revenge.
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