No sexism in ski patrol
Flip it
The kid suddenly appears out of nowhere in the dense fog, exactly on the approximately 1x1 meter spot where the angle is just right to turn the skidoo off the steep pitch into the cat-track. If I go too high, it becomes too steep to turn and I’m stuck uphill, if I turn too early I’m in such a weird angle on the mini ridge below the flat cat-track, the skidoo will tilt over it’s side, if I keep going I’ll plow over the kid with a 220kg 90hp machine with no impact crumple zone.
There’s a split second of panic, in which I come to an almost stop, the kid does a sudden tight turn ending up below me, and as I pull the gas lever again, I have made the wrong decision, gotten too low for the turn, and too slow to white knuckle over the ridge, and I can feel the skidoo tilt and gain air on it’s left, so I jump off sideways as it starts to roll in on itself down the hill. I whip around to see if the kid is in its path, but it’s so foggy I can’t see anything. All I hear is the piercing sound of clunking metal, the stalling engine and what I assume are parts flying off it.
I slide downhill and somewhat poetically, see black smoke mixing with the white fog. It’s quiet now, and I hear no screaming, which is either really good, or really really bad. I make my way even further down, clear the fog line and see - no kid. I breathe for the first time in what feels like hours.
Now, the absolute yard-sale I’ve produced becomes apparent. All the tools from under the seats’ storage are splattered across the slope, the machine is upside down, black smoke coming from the engine, the back metal cage is bent, the front left plexiglass windshield is broken and it’s dug itself a little snow hole, with a black line of gas in the snow behind it. It’s as if the skidoo has sacrificed itself before it could roll any further, because somehow it managed to stop on the steepest section of the run. I’m shaking as I start to gather some of the tools and bits and pieces that are thrown across the slope, and make the call.
“Stefan, I’ve flipped the skidoo. No one's hurt, but I need help.”
As I wait for my colleague I am mortified. This is my first season in this resort, a town I have just moved to, laying all my eggs in one basket. I was tired of moving around every season. Even though it’s already April, I’ve only been here for two weeks, because earlier that season, on my very first day at work on ski patrol, I had torn my ACL, had to get surgery and rehab my knee. Which I now feel thumping furiously in pain. Unsurprisingly, my doctor and physical therapists had strongly advised against working ski patrol already but I was miles away from actually getting on skis anyway. I figured I can still do patrol, because at this particular resort we do most rescues on skidoos anyway. We’re basically a glorified taxi. This is not a great start. First, I tear my ACL and go MIA for the season, then I flip a skidoo and can’t even fix it myself.
I am definitely getting fired.
When Stefan shows up, I stumble over a confused apology, and he surprises me by saying: “It’s only a machine. Main thing is nobody’s hurt”. He then proceeds to dig out the left front ski and single handedly pushes the skidoo upright, instructing me to get ready to jump on it and pull the brakes in case it starts to slide. When it was flipped, he checked the engine and concluded the gas pouring over the hot engine is creating the black smoke but it should be fine to ride to the garage. He was adamant I should ride it there myself, since if I don’t get on again right away, I will never get on it again.
I had fallen off and gotten back on plenty of horses (both literal and metaphorical) in my day, so that wasn’t an issue, but as we were convoying down to the garage, all determination to do this job slowly left my body, as I silently cursed and cried on the inside, because it has never been more obvious that physically, I could never do what Steve just did. I simply am not strong enough and never will be.
Only in my head
“Maybe some jobs really aren’t for women...”, “What the feck is a Frenchie? Is it a tool? Is it a sandwich? What is he asking me for? Why do all men seem to know the names of all tools?” ...were just some of the thoughts that went through my head as he fixed the skidoo in the garage (Steve is also a mechanic). I was embarrassed. I was watching my colleague fix a problem I had created. The next day I braced myself for the conversation with my boss. I assumed they would let me finish the season, but not ask me back next winter. When I saw him, he laughed and said “It happens to everybody.” I was both surprised and relieved.
He informed me of the already ordered spare windshield and reminded me that speed was my friend: “Never go too slow uphill, you can’t steer anymore”. And that was it. No fuss, no drama. Certainly no mention of my inability to lift the skidoo by myself... Off to morning checks I was sent.
For the rest of the season, sure, there were some jokes about me breaking the skidoo but all in good humor, and when the spring snow got even mushier and tougher to break on, my colleagues would periodically ask me if I was still OK riding all the steep and tricky sections. I would say yes, it’s fine, even though I was absolutely shitting myself. It is now two winters later and I still get a bit scared sometimes, but my biggest worry about the skidoo these days is that the control levers are too far from the handle bar for smaller hands. All my colleagues are big strong burly mountain men with bear claws as hands so they can reach easily, whereas I have to stretch and reach, which sometimes makes me feel like a little kid playing with grown-up toys. Those smaller hands come in handy though when having to reach into a snow machine hydrant gully to fiddle with a lodged rope knot.
It seems to me that it never even crosses my male colleagues' minds that I happen to be a woman. And if it is, they hide it well. Now…higher up in the ranks, it’s another story. And I’m not talking about my boss, who is more like a team leader in the hierarchy of the company Iwork for.
The trouble starts, where the low paying ranks end.