The family ski trip-- from a chicken soup book.

Maybe I’ve been spending too much time watching the x-files or something, but I’m trying to think how I would describe skiing to extraterrestrials.
Aliens: Take us t your leader.
Me: Can’t right now, we’re going skiing.
Aliens: what is skiing?
Me: well, first you go to the top of this really, really high mountain that’s covered with this cold, slippery stuff called snow. The you strap these skinny little sticks on your feet, and try to go straight down in a standing position without killing yourself. And if you survive, you stand in a long line for the opportunity to do it again.
Aliens: Goodbye.
Me: where are you going?
Aliens. In search of intelligent life.

It was crowded in the rental shop. Plus, with the temperature only twenty degrees outside, everyone was dressed like the Pillsbury Dough Boy—only in shades of mauve and lime green.
“Maybe we should have rented equipment back in town,” my wife suggested.
“No way,” I said. “Remember last time? they gave me two left ski’s and two right boots. All day long I kept running into myself. Besides, now that I’m more experienced, I need more sophisticated stuff.”
“You and I never got off the bunny slope,” she said. “The kids were the only ones who advanced.”
“Well sure, but with better equipment I’ll be skiing circles around everyone out there.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” she said.
A young man approached us, wearing a ski hat pulled down to his eyebrows.
“Are you like into radical carving or do you get off by just dropping in and tucking?”
I hesitated.
“He kinda ski’s all over the place,” my wife told him.
“Oh, right, vary the terrain, challenge the brain. Cool. Got just the right set-up for you.”
He handed me a set of ski’s that looked like they might have been made by NASA.
“Progressive force bindings with environmental friction control, and ultra-fast racing skis with deep side cuts and a beta torsion core. You’ll fly with these babies.”
He turned to my wife. She glanced at me and my new racing outfit. “I just want something for the other parent who can’t afford to be out of work on crutches for 6 weeks,” she told him.
To me, the worst part of skiing is getting from the ski lodge to the chairs. There’s always a slope, and it’s always slippery. Usually, after 30 minutes or so, I find I have actually lost ground and am now standing in the parking lot.
Apparently, the 1200 dollar skis helped, because in just minutes, we safely made it to the bunny slope and got in line with all the other 5-year olds.
That’s when the rest of the family came barreling up, skidding to a stop right in front of us. I watched them for a second, smiled, then immediately fell down, taking the entire waiting line with me.
“Wow. Cool skis,” Jon said. “But this is the wrong lift, You want that lift over there.”
I followed the path of the chair lift up the mountain until it became a speck that disappeared into the thick clouds.
“You’re not… scared, are you?” asked Patrick.
“Of course not. it’s just that these skis may not be fast enough to ski up there on…”
“Black Death Run.”
"Right, Black Death Run."
My wife opted for coffee instead of sheer terror, leaving me as parent-in-charge.
Next thing I knew, we were standing somewhere that even mountain goats wouldn’t go.
I immediately issued a warning to the others.
“Don’t get to close to the edge of that cliff,” I shouted. “follow me.”
“This isn’t a cliff,” Christy said. “this is the trail. The cliff is over there somewhere…Dude?”
I’ve often wondered what my last words would be. I figured maybe something like “I did it for God and country,” or “I’m sorry I have but one life to give.”
As it turns out my last words contain only vowels, as in,
“Yiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooo..”
I’m not exactly sure what happened over the next few minutes. I remember a lot of white, some muted voices, and being poked by a number of sharp objects all over my body. Fox Mulder of the x-files would have called it an alien abduction. Maybe it was. Of course, why the aliens rolled me up like a giant snowball and dropped me off at the foot of the mountain I’ll never know.
But everyone seemed happy to see me, including the rental shop guy, who quickly removed my progressive force bindings and ultra-fast racing skis, and returned to his shop muttering something about hot-shot adults and why couldn’t they be more sensible---like teenagers.
The rest of my family arrived just as my wife handed me a cup of something that looked like coffee, but tasted like brandy.“Thanks, dear,” I said. “and you’ll be happy to know I’ve given up skiing.”
“we are too,” said Stacey.
“Really?” my wife asked.
“Yup,” added Shane. “tomorrow, we’re all going snowboarding.”
I sighed, pulled a pinecone out of my era, and downed the entire contents of the cup.