Jan. 28, 1968
If I live to be as old as Methuselah I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn the lesson or remember for long that no matter how top hole we feel or in what excellent physical condition we may be (according to the assurance of our favorite pill-roller), we are not immune to the tiresome little disasters that befall other members of the population when unfriendly conditions catch them with their guard down.
When the rapidly clicking little ball comes to rest on the spot that has your name on it you’re going to realize what a mistake you made when you thought it couldn’t happen to you. You’ve religiously taken every vitamin known to man; you’ve obediently heeded the advice of nutritionists and avoided excessive consumption (to use their phraseology) of fats and sweets; you’ve carefully and generously larded your diet with plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit and good red meat. Furthermore you’ve kept your muscles in tone and your paunch under control by patrolling the mountain trails, the forest and alpine skiways. You feel as hard as nails and absolutely impervious to the various ills that beset your complaining fellows.
And then, after all that, a little bug so small you can’t see it with a microscope ducks under your guard and administers a punch to the solar plexus that knocks you just as flat as the other softies you’ve been looking down your nose at. At last you’re made to realize it can happen to you. It did happen to me.
Whatever it was that hit me tried to be halfway decent about it; I’ve received similar blows before and recovered in 2 or 3 days; on our first trip to Mt. Ashland to ski I divided my time between a cold blizzard on the slope and a relatively warm lodgeful of ski-folks, with the inevitable horde of people-eating germs that always hover about crowds looking for suitable victims. They found me.
That evening I discovered I had a slight case of the sniffles and a tightness in my chest, –which condition I considered hardly worthy of attention, knowing that in a day or so it would be gone and forgotten. Sure enough by the following evening I seemed back to normal again – all except an insignificant lingering of the chest thing.
Early next morning I went into Grants Pass to join Bill and little Billie Pruitt for another day of skiing at Mt. Ashland. That was the most satisfying day of skiing I’ve had to date. I used both my long and short skis and skied 3 different slopes, my first experience on the little-T. Once I hit a soft spot with the shorties, upended and buried my face in the snow in less time than it takes to say zut. I almost had to chisel the snow off my glasses.
Another time I started up the T-lift, something happened to my skis, and I slid off the bar, sitting down hard on the pair of cane ski poles I carried in my left hand. There was a sickening 8-dollar crunch and the poles were rendered permanently unskiworthy. For the rest of the day I skied without poles – and wondered why I hadn’t thrown them away in the first place.
When we got back to Bill’s place that evening, we found something very special awaiting us. It was Bill’s birthday and Claudette had gone all out to prepare a birthday after-ski dinner in a fashion that put the final delicious touch to a day that had been near perfection.
Back home I made another discovery that was neither so delightful as the surprise dinner, nor even very surprising. Those lingering chest bugs that had been letting me off easy, now decided to teach me a lesson. They called up all reserves and attacked in full force. I spent the second night alternating between chills and fever and have been fighting the thing ever since. Cold sores popped out all over my lips, giving me the attractive appearance of having been slugged in the mouth with a sledge-hammer.
The thing started a week ago and at last I’ve got it whipped – almost. By next weekend I’ll be ready to join the gang for another go at alpine or x-c skiing.
Sunday Charles and Dean came out from Grants Pass in Charles’ Volkswagen to get me to go x-c skiing up Bolan way with them. We had a nice visit, but they had to go skiing without me. The last thing they heard when they drove out of the lane and onto the river road was a piteous shuddering sob coming from somewhere up the Gulch.
Lying around the cabin for a week fighting a flock of bugs hasn’t been much fun, and the whole annoying experience could have been avoided, I suppose, if I had used a reasonable amount of care.
But I still haven’t become convinced that old Horace the Hermit up on Sawtooth Ridge is wrong when he says that when you start being careful you stop having fun.
