Chairlift rescue results in good-natured ribbing

Skiing instruction didn't include details on how to be rescued from the chair lift.

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By TAMMY MALGESINI

Inside my shoes

Published on January 26, 2016 1:28PM

Watching all the snow falling on the East Coast this past weekend made me long for the ski slopes. While I have only skied once since having a knee replacement in 2005, I still dream about powder days.

I got into skiing while running residential programs for adults with developmental disabilities. Several clients had expressed an interest in Special Olympics skiing, so I became a coach.

I met Buzz Fulton, a longtime ski instructor who died two years ago at the age of 93, at Spout Springs Ski Area. Receiving a 50-year membership pin from the National Professional Ski Instructors of America, he was a wealth of knowledge when it came to skiing.

Over the years, I often ran into Buzz at Spout Springs and Anthony Lakes Mountain Resort — picking his brain on everything from techniques to proper attire. And then it happened. No amount of discussions could have prepared me for the time I had to be rescued from the chairlift.

Not only was I cold, I also was up pretty high. And, I suffer from anxiety-induced bronchospasm. Oh, and did I mention, I would be the first one rescued, so my behavior would set the example for the Special Olympics athletes stuck on chairs behind me.

I understand mechanical failures sometimes happen. However, this sudden malfunction occurred courtesy of Matt DeLong. Matt came up to see how his daughter, Bailey, was doing on the slopes.

A little hesitant to get on the chairlift, Matt, who wasn’t wearing skis, offered to ride with her. Seated in the chair behind them, I was to ski down the trail with Bailey while Matt continued down on the chairlift. In theory, it was a seamless plan.

In theory.

Bailey disembarked perfectly from the chairlift. Gliding on the snow, she swooshed forward and to the side to wait for me.

Matt, however, got caught up in the moment. Failing to follow the lift operator’s instructions regarding lifting his legs, the emergency brake engaged and the lift came to a screeching halt.

When the lift wouldn’t re-start, the lift operators and ski patrol set the rescue plan into action. After kicking off my skis and dropping my poles, I waited for them to shoot a rope up over the cable.

After the rope gun jammed, one of the rescuers finally threw it up. Attached to the rope was what they called a “seat.” In actuality, it resembled the old paddleball toy from my youth, sans the attached rubber ball.

After directing me to place the paddleball seat between the chairlift and my bum, they said to slide off the chairlift. I was getting pretty cold, which probably contributed to my lack of hesitation. (It was nothing for me to stand on the cliffs at Warehouse Beach for 30 minutes or more before taking the plunge).

I sucked on my asthma inhaler and pushed off the chairlift. Dangling in the air, they slowly lowered me to the ground to a waiting snowmobile.

The athletes followed rescue instructions like champs. And, they particularly enjoyed the snowmobile ride back to the lodge for hot chocolate.

I wanted to catch up with Matt and rib him about the whole ordeal. However, he had already taken off.

Sometimes when I run into Matt, I still give him a bad time. But I haven’t seen him for awhile. So do me a favor, if you happen to see Matt, ask him about the time he stranded the Special Olympics ski team on the chairlift at Spout Springs.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.