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I grew up in a house on the outskirts of Greenfield, Massachusetts. The back yard butted up against a huge pine woods that grew all over a mountain, at the top of which was a scenic view known as Sachem's Head. I knew it had something to do with the fact that one of the rocky outcroppings looked vaguely like an Indian, but I didn't find out till I was in my thirties that Sachem was the Eastern Tribes' word for Chief.
Also on this rocky, at times extremely steep wooded mountain was a ski jump built of pine-pitch-soaked timber. They used it for regional trials and local contests. When it wasn't being used, us neighborhood kids would take our sleds about halfway up the hill used for the landings, and dare each other to try it from further up the almost vertical slope which was usually packed hard and ice-smooth. This usually led to one wrecked sled per day and some really interesting crash landings when the sled would leave the ground and return to earth about ten feet further and three feet lower than when it left, but I can't remember any injuries worse than getting all the air knocked out of your body and not being able to talk or breathe or move for five or ten minutes.
Anyway, it was a cool thing to go out to the jump when they were getting ready for a meet, and watch the practice and qualifying runs. You got a better view of the jumpers than when the real meet was going on because there weren't any crowds. Those guys would leave the top of the jump ramp waaaaay the hell up there, just a little ant-thing at the top of a tower and then get bigger and bigger till you could see their clothes flapping on their sleeves and legs, and they'd hit the end of the ramp and JUMP as hard as they could, and then stand straight up, bent forward at the ankles, skis tight together, arms stiff at their sides (yes, that was considered proper form in the 60's) and they'd saaaaiiil through the air and most of the time they'd hit the landing slope just perfect and then try to stop before they mowed down a few officials and volunteers at the bottom. Or else they'd wipe out and a ski or two would go flying, or they'd just slide along at about a thousand miles an hour till they came to a stop.
So, there I am, watching the jumps. I'm getting cold and I'm thinking about heading home to warm up and watch some black and white TV as soon as this next guy jumps. Down he comes and off he goes, perfect form all the way. And I watch him sail past me like slow motion, and at the point where he's highest from the ground, his right ski just separates from the rest of him and slowly moves off to the right like a spaceship leaving the station. No jerk or anything, it just like, left and very slowly went away.
I stared. There weren't a lot of people around but I remember a low, collective whispered "Wowww!"
And this guy, without any sign of panic, just sort of straightens up, puts his right foot behind his left one on his remaining ski, and makes the best one-ski landing I've ever seen. (Well, it would have to be. I've only seen the one.) He almost made it. In fact he did land on one ski and got about ten feet before he wiped out.
It was a damn nice recovery, but I've always wondered what went through that guy's mind when he realized he was about fifty feet off the ground going sixty miles an hour and wearing one ski.
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