When I first heard about the Disabled Skiers' Program at Snowbird, I thought it sounded great, but I was pretty skeptical. How could it work for me? Even if they could lift me into one of the new dual ski rig devices, managing the hand-held outriggers was something I wasn't sure I could do. But still I dreamed on, almost daring to hope, as Paul told me his story.
The past 19 months I've been wheelchair-bound. A mosquito bite had given me encephalitis, which had triggered vasculitis and knocked out my central nervous system. I could barely move now, let alone ski. But somehow, I still dared to dream.I had called Paul Tingey on the recommendation of a mutual friend. She had dated Paul in high school, when he had been a football star on Skyline High's 1970 first-place football team. In college, all of our friends had watched his life with interest, taking collective pride in him when he was one of the few national graduates selected to work for IBM. I hadn't heard about him since Paul's job had taken him back east. Imagine my surprise when Heidi told me Paul Tingey would be a good person to talk to about coping with a wheelchair. He had had MS for the past 10 years and had had to retire from IBM three years ago. He and his family were back in Salt Lake City now, and she thought he'd be happy to talk to me.
Eager to talk to someone who would truly understand the emotional challenges of going from a 90-mile-an-hour life, where I could serve everybody, to a slow wheelchair pace, where everyone had to serve me - I called Paul. We talked and laughed about many things.
When Paul told me that 60 percent of all MS patients get a divorce, we both counted our blessings to have such wonderful spouses and great children. Like me, Paul had three sons, plus he had a daughter.
We began talking about all the emotional challenges that go with our conditions. I was especially interested to know how Paul handled the need to relate to his boys with sports. Up until three years ago, he'd still been able to coach little league football. But, then Paul got really excited.
"A year ago," he said, "I was shopping at Albertsons on Friday night, looking for some ski gloves for my oldest boy, who was going skiing the next day.
"I was laughing with the checkout clerk about how much I loved skiing, and how excited I was for my son to go the next day."
"Well, why don't you go with him?" she asked me.
"Meekly I held up my canes, which were supporting me, hidden behind the checkout counter, out of her view. `I can't,' I explained. She paused and looked me directly in the eyes."
"Would you go if you could? Would you be willing to try?"
" `Of course I would,' I laughed. `But I'm afraid it's impossible.' "
"No," she said determinedly. "You can if you want to."
"Then she told me about Peter Mandler and the Disabled Skiers' Program at Snowbird." Paul went on to tell me how he went skiing now with his family.
"You should try it, Kathy," he said. "If I can do it, I bet you can."
"But you can stand, Paul," I said. "I can't even do that."
"Give them a chance," Paul said. "They have all kinds of adaptive devices to get you on the slopes. You'll love it!"
And so I dared to hope a little, though I must admit, I was still very skeptical.
I asked both my doctor and my physical therapist about the skiing program. My doctor was slightly interested, but he said he wouldn't try it this year. We were all hopeful my nerves would make progress and heal, though at the traditional healing rate of one centimeter a year, it might take years before I could walk again.
"Maybe in a year or two," he said.
My physical therapist was also skeptical. He had done wonderful things for me, in the special physical therapy pool at Doxey-Hatch. But all rigged up in a life preserver, with my legs spread apart, floating on my back, in a horizontal position, we were thrilled if I could slowly and smoothly move my legs in the buoyancy of water. When I first started water therapy with Andy, I couldn't do that at all.
He was worried, too, about the temperature. "With your nerve loss, how will you know if your feet get cold? That worries me."
I assured him I'd wear two thick pairs of socks! Peter suggested I show Andy a video of the program. After viewing it, Andy finally said, "Good luck! Have fun!" But I could tell he was still skeptical.
The day was finally here. We'd had a heavy snowstorm the day before, but Wednesday was clear and blue and bright. It was a beautiful day and I was grateful for the dry roads for my friend Elaine's sake. She had only been driving a month, and she was from England, so the snow and the right side of the road, both made her nervous. But she cheerfully gave me a ride up to Snowbird, and we both drank in the beauties of the high mountain ridges, the white frosted pine trees, and the thick feather blanket of powder snow that covered everything. I couldn't believe what it meant to me to just be up close to the mountains in winter. Even if I couldn't ski, it was music to my soul, just to be here surrounded by the granite crags, thousands of pine trees climbing the steep slopes, and the greatest snow on earth.
We were supposed to meet Peter on the third level, in front of the Sport Stalker. My mom and dad had beat us there. Lan, my husband, came up too, and was there all ready to photograph every detail of this adventure and to cheer me on. Mom came up and gave me a big kiss and teased me because I was wearing earrings to go skiing. My mother has never been a skier, it scares her to death. But there she was anyway to clap for me. I owe my love for the sport to my dad. He was there too, grinning and ready to go.
Just then Peter Mandler emerged, his handsome, dark hair pushed back by his sunglasses. When he put them on, the purple tint in the lenses caught the color of his purple parka. With his big smile, he just radiated confidence and fun. Plus, he was gorgeous - the kind of ski instructor you dream about when you're 18!
He had Elaine help me stand up. Then he helped set me into the chair and lifted my legs in. He began buckling me in and talking to my dad and me about his 24 years as a ski instructor, the past 17 as director of Snowbird's Disabled Skiers Program. He had moved to Utah from California and become a student in sociology at Utah State. After graduating, he promised himself a year on the ski patrol at Beaver Mountain.
During the week, he was teaching in the Headstart Program. As he talked about the mountains, and skiing with his 4- and 5-year-old students, Peter was horrified to realize that not one of his kids had ever been up to the mountains, in summer or winter. And here they were surrounded by the beautiful Cache Mountains. He talked to his boss at Beaver Mountain and got permission to bring his Headstart class on a field trip to the resort. The kids came on buses to the wonderful white mountains, and Peter outfitted each of them with baggies over their shoes, and took them up to the chairlift to slide down the hill. The kids were ecstatic. They'd never done anything like it. And, fortunately for us, Peter was hooked.
When Snowbird offered him a job working with Easter Seals, Peter used his desire to share the mountains, to create the Snowbird Disabled Skiers' Program. My dad was fascinated. Like all skiers, he had experienced dreams like Peter's.
Dad had started skiing in 1937, on an old road up by Park City, walking and sliding down the hill. He learned from his dad, who back in the 1900s, had made his own skis, carving the skis out of old pine boards and using leather thongs for straps.
I used to hate lacing up my old boots, but my dad helped every one of his six children to get those boots on. We shopped garage sales and the D.I., and were always grateful to find equipment that fit, even if it took hours to put on. As a mother, now, I realize how immensely patient my dad was. Every Saturday morning that our family went skiing, he probably spent at least two hours getting us dressed. He was always the last one on the slopes because he didn't go until the last child was thoroughly socked and booted and ready to go.
The cost of taking six children skiing was prohibitive in those days. So every winter for six or eight years, my dad was a volunteer ski instructor for the Deseret News Ski School. His pay? His kids got to ski free the days he was teaching. And so between all of his scrimping and economizing, our father gave us a truly priceless gift - the unique joy of being able to truly rejoice over every inch of snow that filled our mountains every winter. Instead of cold and ice, he taught us to see fun and adventure.
Peter was now showing me how to tip the skis so I could turn. A few more basic lessons on how to maneuver my dual skis and we were off. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face as we coasted down the hill and got in line for our first run on Chickadee. My husband, Lan, waved at me. He was in place taking my picture every time I looked up. Peter had them stop the lift for a minute while he and Jeff, the lift operator, helped me and my equipment onto the chair. They buckled the chair in place and Peter climbed on board next to me, swinging his skis in place next to mine.
Jeff intercomed to the top our chair number and told them to stop the lift when our chair got up there. Then with a wave and friendly pat on my skis, he sent us swinging up the hill.
The breeze of cold air and all the white diamonds sparkling in the snow below me were the best medicine I'd had in months. To be up there surrounded by the mountains, and arched over by the cold winter sky was truly another world for me - so different from my bed and the wheelchair I had sat in for the past 19 months.
As we rode up, I told Peter both my doctor and my therapist were not too sure I could do this. Peter smiled gravely and said that was because most people thought of skiing in terms of physical strength.
"But skiing does not depend on strength at all," he said. "It's the ability to use powerful, natural forces like gravity and balance, and the slickness of snow. Skiing is not a natural physical activity like walking or running. Most medical experts think that skiing is impossible because they look at it as a matter of teaching the body how to walk and bend and move. But what any good instructor knows, is that it's much more a matter of learning to take advantage of gravity and physical forces like centrifugal pull. With all of this adaptive equipment they have nowadays, I've taught all kinds of people with MS, cerebral palsy, people who are developmentally disabled, or mentally retarded, or who have Down syndrome - all kinds of people."
"But you're not a trained therapist. How do you do it?" I asked.
"None of my staff has special therapy training," said Peter. "But each of the 15 trained instructors start out and are selected because they are excellent ski instructors. If they know how to teach skiing, I can show them how to help their students to use adaptive equipment." Peter pointed matter-of-factly to the "Professional Ski Instructor of America" badge on his parka. "I train all my instructors according to the guidelines in the American Teaching System book. That's on how to teach people how to ski - not how to teach disabled people how to ski."
Just then the lift stopped. Our chair was 650 yards up the mountain at the top of Chickadee. With a bump I was off the lift and my skis were settled into the snow. Peter pushed behind me and we glided to the edge at the top of the hill.
"Now, our first few runs are just to get you used to the snow and how the equipment works," Peter said. "Look the way you want to turn and use your out-riggers to help shift your weight. I have two tethers attached to you and I'll be right behind. I'll use the tethers to help you turn and control your speed at first. Are you ready? Okay, look to the left, and let's go!"
My first two times down the trail, Peter cautioned me that the dual ski would not handle as well in the heavy powder that had dumped the day before. "Once it's smoothed down, when you come again on Friday, it will go much faster." The little extension skis on the side caught in the deep powder, and I must admit I tripped over three or four times in my first two runs down the hill.
With each fall I thought of my brother, Richard, who had learned how to ice skate on Utah Lake at the age of 5. When we asked him how he liked skating, he had nodded enthusiastically and said, "Oh yes, I love it! It's easy. All you do is one plop, two plop!" If learning how to ski meant falling occasionally I didn't mind fulfilling that requirement. Falling and getting back up were part of learning how to live, let alone ski!
After two runs down the hill, Peter could tell the hand-held outriggers were not ideal for me. "Wait here for a minute," he said. "I'll be right back with a bar that I think will work better for you." He was back in a flash. He and my husband, Lan, and my dad, tinkered with the skis, setting them out into broader angles replacing the outriggers with the bar.
"To turn," Peter said, "all you have to do is first look in the direction you want to and point the little finger on that hand. This will shift your weight and cause the skis to turn."
This method worked much better for me. Once we knew this, the skiing got better and better. By Friday the snow was more packed and my adaptive equipment was perfect for me. Peter took me up again with a visitor from Los Angeles, Jack Walters. He was here observing because he was involved with Pearson Community College's program for disabled skiers. He was thrilled to see my adaptive equipment, and Peter and Jack talked about all kinds of issues, including the Utah Winter Games Races in January, for disabled skiers.
My fastest run that day was a minute and a half. My 15-year-old son, Richard, laughed and said he couldn't snowboard down that run that fast.
After nine runs on Friday, we came to the end of the day, but not to a stop. For me it was just a beginning. And let me warn you - keep your eyes open for the fastest thing on dual skis in the mountains - it will be me, singing my heart out and dancing across the greatest snow on earth. Instead of just watching, come join me. Because, believe me, if I can be a skier, so can you!