Bonking the Noggin’…Or Things Learned in Montana

First run after the ambulance ride.

Every year, the Ski Hut in Duluth, a local ski and bike shop owned by the Neustel family, organizes a family oriented trip to Bozeman, Montana. My mom and stepdad have been going out there with their skiing friends for the better part of two decades. My own immediate family, including all four sons and their significant others, have made the trip. This year, it was just Rene’ and I, along with our friends Jan and Bruce Larson, who made the trek from Minnesota to Montana. My mom and stepdad drove out for the Tuesday buffet to visit with folks in attendance but, as both of them are over the age of eighty, they no longer ski. Rene’ and I always make the drive out to Bozeman, usually stopping in Bismarck or Dickinson, North Dakota and spending the night. My mom and stepdad also drove despite their advanced ages. It’s a long ride through western Minnesota, all of North Dakota, and most of Montana from Duluth to Bozeman but, with the exception of the stretch from Fargo to Teddy Roosevelt National Park in far western North Dakota, the ride is fairly scenic. This year, we saw pheasants and wild turkey and a large herd of pronghorn on the way west. In the past, we encountered a moose standing in a cornfield just outside Fargo, a setting for that big creature that made no sense.The Larsons avoided the boredom of driving across North Dakota by flying from Minneapolis to Bozeman.

Monday. First day. I don’t remember much about President’s Day. In fact, when questioned in the ski patrol room, ambulance, and Bozeman Deaconess Hospital about the day and date, I couldn’t remember that it was Monday, that is was February 15th or that it was President’s Day. Ambulance ride? you ask. Si! Sometime between leaving my wife early on Monday morning to ski the black diamond runs off the Bridger lift and finding myself in the ski patrol room at the base of Bridger Bowl, something happened to my noggin’. The what is elusive. No one was with me so no one can attest to whether my complete loss of three hours’ time was due to a catastrophic fall, oxygen depletion, dehydration, or a combination of all three. I don’t remember making my way to the Deer Park chalet for cocoa with Rene’, Jan, and Bruce. I don’t remember repeating the same question to my wife eight times in a minute’s span. I don’t remember being confused as to where I’d left my skis. Or that I couldn’t remember the make or color of my skis. And I don’t remember taking six runs with the Larsons. It’s all gone. Completely wiped from my mind.

Rene’ skiing Bridger Bowl.

Apparently, my friends and my wife determined that something was very wrong with my mental status while we ate lunch. Lunch? I don’t remember it at all. I do remember being ushered by Bruce to the ski patrol room and meeting with a patroler and an orthopedic surgeon from New Zealand as they provided an assessment and care for my disorientation. But I don’t recall our conversations, or the tests they ran, or my responses to their questions. Their diagnosis was “altered mental state possibly related to a fall” and Rene’ was advised that I should be taken by ambulance to the local hospital for further evaluation.

The young female EMT who rode with me in the back of the ambulance down the mountain was cute with dyed red hair, scandalously cool tats, and an even manner. When I complained that my bladder was full, she gave me a portable urinal and moved to the front of the rig to give me privacy and talk to Rene’. Ever tried peeing while lying down and strapped to a gurney? Doesn’t work, at least not for this 61-year-old man. The first thing I did when I was brought into Bozeman Deaconess was to ask for privacy to go. And I did. Then it was off to the CT scanner. My blood, drawn by the EMT in the ambulance, was analyzed. My vitals were checked. My blood pressure, which is normally on the low side,

Bruce and Rene’, Bridger chalet.

was high. My oxygen was slightly depleted. The scan appeared, according to the doctor and the nice PA who worked on me, normal. “Did anyone see him fall?” the PA asked Bruce, Jan, and Rene’. The answer was of course, a resounding “No.”

Bruce and Jan Larson, Bridger Bowl.

“How about his helmet?” the PA asked. “It’s in the car,” Bruce replied. “I’ll go get it.” We’d all arrived at the hill in my blue Pacifica. After my momentary lapse of reason, Rene’ rode shotgun in the ambulance. The Larsons, after collecting all our gear, had followed in the Chrysler. When Bruce returned with my helmet, it was pockmarked with new scrapes and dents and dings. It certainly looked like I’d fallen. And yet, the truth remains elusive as I have no recollection of the incident, if there was one.

I took the next day off on doctor’s orders. I sat in the Bridger chalet, reading The Confabulist (see review elsewhere on this blog), sipping coffee and lamenting that I’d cost my wife and my friends half a day of skiing. Rene’ and the Larsons were out, doing what I wanted to be doing, gliding down the slopes. But the doctor had given me strict orders not so ski for the rest of the week. I figured one day off and I’d be good to go. I can be a stubborn old cuss at times.

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky.

After attending the Ski Hut banquet on Tuesday night, where copies of my books were given away as door prizes, and after Potter Neustel pointed to me as he was giving away a ski helmet and quipped “Just ask Judge Munger the value of a helmet…”, and of course, after explaining what I knew (or didn’t know) about what had happened to me, I skied Bridger on Wednesday and Big Sky/Moonlight on Thursday. Rene’ took two days off, Wednesday to simply rest her sore feet (she had new ski boots and they were causing blisters) and Thursday to visit the Spa in Big Sky, using a gift certificate I’d given to her at Christmas. The Larsons kept me by their side, making sure that I didn’t over exert myself or end up in the trees. On Thursday, strong winds at Big Sky, along with thunder and lightening, shut down the hill for a time. When we finally got back to it, Jan, Bruce, and I were pelleted by sleet sharp enough to make skin bleed.

A highlight of the trip was taking Eagle Scout and Hermantown kid, Rudy Hummel, out for pizza at McKenzie River Pizza in downtown Bozeman. You might remember Rudy. He’s the young lad who slept outside for 365 straight days, making national news for his effort. He’s now attending Montana State and, given that we’re Face Book friends, I had messenged him and offered to treat him to pizza. He obliged and regaled the Larsons, Rene’, and my mom and stepdad with his remarkable story.

Of course, being that my own tale was circulating amongst Duluthians occupying the Comfort Inn, I was asked to retell my story, or non-story, many times over the succeeding days. During that time, the fogginess I’d experienced subsided. I recovered sufficiently to take a final plunge down a double black off the North Bowl traverse. Despite my forgotten Monday, I ended the trip breathless  and wanting more.

“How was your last run?” Jan asked as I clambered into the chalet to meet my party for a beer. “I think you must have snuck in an extra run somehow,” she added. “I did.” “So…?” Bruce asked, “how was it?” “It was legendary,” I replied. And it was.

The Larsons and the Mungers, Bridger Bowl.

But that’s not the end of this story. After a fifteen hour drive, Rene’ and I tumbled into our own bed, exhausted, leaving the Pacifica full of our gear. Sunday afternoon, I unloaded the van. I was unaware that it had rained during our absence, leaving treacherous black ice beneath an inch of new powder. As I took a step towards the garage door, my right foot slipped and I tumbled. My right leg bent behind me, resulting in a very painful impression of a human pretzel. Thankfully, I didn’t hit my head. But when I tried to stand, I knew I’d done serious damage to my right knee, my good knee. The left? It’s slated for partial knee replacement after years of running, skiing, football, softball, and assorted other outdoor activities. My right knee? Up until that moment, it was without pain. As I type this piece three days’ after my fall on ice, my right knee is swollen and sore. I have trouble standing up from a chair. I can’t put weight on it. I see my doctor tomorrow to fulfill the old adage, “You should have your head examined!” I’ll have to tell Dr. Knutson my story, including the last little bit because he’ll also need to examine my right knee. When I explain what happened in Montana, and then later, in Duluth, I hope it’s the last time I have to repeat my story, a story I really don’t know.

Moonlight Basin at Big Sky

Peace.

Mark

Last day on the mountain.