From: "Kent Sarff @CXO" <KSarff@mcs.ogo.dec.com>
To: "'Dan & Eric'" <email@example.com>
Subject: Mr. Squirty
Date: Mon, 11 Dec 1995 18:29:48 -0500
A few weekends ago, Jim Z and his officemate Chris were out this way (Colorado) to attend some grand conference at Copper Mountain Ski Resort. Yeah, I was thinking boondoggle too.
Well, my now-ex-girlfriend who lives a few miles (ok about 20) from Copper Mountain said a few weeks earlier, "It's been nice, but...goodbye", so among other things, I lost my free sleeping arrangements in Summit County. Crashing in Jim & Chris' condo wasn't a problem, since, after all, the swines got a fucking suite. So I crashed on the extra sofa sleeper. Thanks again.
Adding an extra day onto my weekend wasn't a problem, so I met them at the condo on Friday morning. After the requisite breakfast and "how ya been" spoo, we took off for the slopes. We took a run or two, I did some trees & glades while Jim & Chris skied in the freshly-groomed corduroy slopes. Jim wanted to take a break (a very long one, it turns out) so Chris & I cruise on up to the highest point on the mountain, above tree line at about 11,500' elevation. Great views abound, if you ignore the 40 knot west wind that wants to blow you off the summit ridge. The place makes for great pictures, and you get a view of about 60 miles of the continental divide.
Chris & I take off down the ridgeline. The run is an intermediate run that has a number of excellent black-diamond bump runs dropping off either side. It's the only intermediate way down from that summit. I take off ahead to make sure that Chris takes a mandatory left turn (sparing him from a really gnarly bump run with a few decent cliff drops - wahoo!) and wait for him.
About that time, a putz who is skiing far past his ability passes by me and heads down the ridge towards one of the bump runs. Waiting for Chris, I hear someone shout, "Help!" from somewhere down where the putz skied. The putz, who is out of sight, yells that he is bleeding. So I yell up at Chris, who yells up the ridgeline, etc. until a ski patrol member is contacted. The putz yells in a real agonized voice that he is really hurt, so I unstrap from my board and head over there. The putz is indeed bleeding, very badly, from a massive laceration in his leg, just above his boot. Hence the name of this story. Yes, my friends, blood is in the air. No need to guess his pulse, just watch, I think as I run over to help him.
I'm not too eager to reach out and touch this guy since he is covered in it, but he is conscious (sp?) and alert, so I have him apply direct pressure to his femoral artery right near his crotch. Mr. Squirty loses his namesake as the pressure does its job. The putz only skied once last season and was on his first run of the day.
One of his still-sharpened skis had released during some putz-driven maneuver and had sliced though his pants and into the meaty part of his lower leg, slicing to the bone. Ugh. What a fucking idiot.
The ski patrol arrived and I help them get the putz into the sled and tied in for his ride all the way from the top of the hill to the bottom.
Usually the patrol carts people's skis in the sled, but the putz needed to keep his grip on that artery and they didn't want anything bouncing around and distracting him. So I volunteered to carry the putz's skis & poles down to the main lodge. Which isn't much of a problem if you are on skis. But I'm riding a board, so balance gets interesting. Oh, and cleaning the putz's skis was, ugh, disgusting. And alot of blood got smeared all over my new jacket on the way down. The patrol recommends using cold water to remove blood from skiwear. Thanks. Oh, it worked.
Well, there you have the story of Mr. Squirty. Enjoy!