The day Dad flew the Buick

It was December 23, 1968. We were living in Laramie Wyoming while Dad got his Master's degree. The six of us were stuffed rather snugly into a two bedroom student apartment with cinder block walls painted approximately the color of Crest toothpaste, (which explains why students who were moving out often bought Crest to cover the nail holes in the wall.)

We were living on the cheap that winter, but Dad had promised to take us and our friends for one really good ski trip to Steamboat Springs, Colorado. The day had arrived. The air was full of excitement, and the car was full of people. There were eight of us going on the trip. Dad, Dave and I and five of our friends. The gold Buick Wildcat had our ski rack secured to the roof with eight pair of skis in place. Dad had put them all carefully in their place pointing forward, tips up.

Soon we were off like a herd of turtles. We always thought that the object of driving was to pass everything on the road. Dad was our shining example here, and he was doing his best to hold up that fine tradition that wintry morning; we were just barely hitting the high spots as the 465 cubic inch brute of an engine powered us along. I suspect Dad was doing ninety something and we were driving into a rather fearsome headwind as well.

Suddenly, Dad got a bewildered look on his face and rocked the steering wheel back and forth gently a couple of times. The Buick appeared to ignore the prompting and continued straight forward. The front facing skis had created a perfect wing and the front tires were several inches off the ground. The Buick was now literally taking flight! There was a wrenching sound of metal on metal and a thump as the ski rack detached itself from the Buick. The tires came back to earth and Dad swerved and recovered control. I was in the back seat. I craned my neck and looked heavenward to see the ski rack flying proudly, at 100 feet, the sun glinting majestically off the skis.
Abruptly, the ski rack did a wing-over that would make a dive-bomber proud and crashed into a drift several hundred yard out in a snowy alfalfa field. Ski's flew everywhere.

We scrambled over the fence and began recovery operations. Remarkably, there were no broken skis. However, the rack was K.I.A. We reloaded the car. four people in front, four in back and eight pair of skis on the laps of the back seaters, sticking out of the right rear window and the heater going full blast.

We arrived safely though somewhat chilled at Steamboat. We all got our skis on and headed up the lifts. While skiing from the first chairlift down to the second, I hit a mogul that was disguised by the flat shadowless grey of a solid overcast. I caught an edge, tried to straighten out, caught my left ski tip and twisted it nearly 180 degrees.
I heard the distinct sound of two bones breaking as I sailed through the rarified Colorado air and landed in a painful heap.

I moaned but got my skis off and attempted to stand up. Bad Idea! Someone sent for the Ski Patrol, and soon I was bundled up on a stretcher toboggan and headed down to the first aid station. Dad was just getting his skis on after getting everyone else together, when he was paged. I was ambulanced to the Steamboat Springs Hospital which has an entrance for "Ski Fractures Only". (No kidding!).

Several hours later found me on a gurney with a new cast on my left ankle and only my briefs on the rest of me. There was at least a sheet to cover my quailing 15 year old form. Dad had pulled strings and mentioned that Mom was a nurse so I wouldn't have to stay overnight in the hospital. Without further ceremony I was wheeled out to the entrance. The sheet was removed and Dad scooped up my scantily clad self and dropped me in the front seat of the Buick.

The trip back to Laramie was accomplished with three people in the front seat. My Dad Drove. I sat with my new cast on his lap and Dave had the window seat. Now there were five in the back seat, eight pair of skiis, a window down...the heater on, and a partridge in a pear tree. (Just kidding about the partridge).

At home, Dad was equally considerate of my teen aged embarrassment. And I spent the next several days on the couch in the living room, watching men circle the Moon.

I could also tell you about the Christmas Turkey, two days later, with smoked oyster stuffing gone wild that made the whole bird taste like one giant smoked oyster. Or I could tell you about winning a bet over the Second Super Bowl a month later. But those are stories for another day.