By Bartholomew LOH and Le-ann PADE
All images credited to the authors.
If you ever want to question your life choices, just go skiing for the first time. Preferably on a mountain where the only thing you know about skiing is that “pizza” means “slow down.” Unfortunately, nobody tells you that “pizza” only works when you actually know how to control your skis.
Saint François Longchamp felt like a winter wonderland-at least from the safety of the lodge. For someone terrified of heights, though, the ski lift was the first big challenge. It rattled and groaned as it climbed higher, and I gripped the cold metal bar like my life depended on it.
The moment the ski lift brought me and my roommate up to the ski slopes and we tried to move out of the lift, the inertia pushed me forward, and I couldn’t control it-I fell. Hard. As if on cue, the second my skis touched the ground, I fell again. Hard. Then, just like that. One moment, I was with my roommate, the next moment, I found myself alone on a blue route, which, despite being labelled “intermediate,” felt like a vertical drop of death.
I spent five hours-yes, FIVE-tumbling, rolling, and sliding my way down that mountain, with only my bruises to keep me company. At one point, a kind elderly lady stopped to lend me a hand and, with a warm and motherly voice, suggested that I should go to ski school. Ouch. If my pride wasn’t already buried in the snow, that comment finished the job.
Somehow, I made it to the bottom, convinced I was done for the day. That was until I met Charlotte, Sarah, and Téa, who offered to take me down the same blue slope again-promising they wouldn’t leave me behind. Hoping for redemption, I agreed. But as we started our second descent, the sun slid behind the peaks, casting long shadows across the snow and draining my energy with every turn and tumble. Every fall felt heavier, every attempt to stand back up slower. Even my friends, who had been lifting me up over and over again, could see how much I was struggling. By the end, even the mountain workers advised me to start walking if I wanted to get down before nightfall. Completely drained, I had no choice but to accept defeat and trudged my way down the slope, each step feeling heavier than the last.
By the time I finally made it back to the lodge, my entire body felt like it had been battered by an avalanche. With a groan, I promised myself that I would rest the next day.
Spoiler alert: I did not.
The next morning, Boo texted me bright and early, determined to help me master the green route. After the bruising from the day before, I was relieved to find this path relatively flat. Still, I moved at a snail’s pace, terrified of losing control. Boo urged me to pick up speed, but my survival instincts had other plans. Despite my timid progress, I felt proud-I made it down without any major wipeouts!
Later in the day, I practiced with other beginners, which eased my nerves. Their shared trepidation made me feel less alone. By the next day, feeling slightly more confident, I ventured onto a mix of green and blue routes. Each successful run sparked a tiny rush of adrenaline, and I found myself craving more challenge.
With newfound confidence, I decided to challenge the red route: Le Samouraï. Accompanied by Timothy and Yu Xuan, we set off towards Valmorel.
It all started well-until another skier from nowhere crashed into me. His ski ended up between mine, and before I knew it, we were accelerating down the slope together in an awkward, tangled mess. In a desperate attempt to free himself, he kicked his leg out, sending me airborne. For two surreal seconds, I was flying through the air, before gravity reintroduced itself, and I crash-landed into the snow.
Something felt wrong. I tried pushing myself up with my left arm, but it refused to cooperate. Realizing the issue, I switched to my right arm and managed to get up. Then I gathered back with Timothy and Yu Xuan at the bottom of the mountain, and we took another cable car back for another round of practice.
As we ascended, pain exploded in my left arm, now locked in a rigid 90-degree angle, and I knew something was seriously wrong. I immediately went straight to the rescue centre, where the ski patrol guy, with an almost comical level of caution, asked me three times if I was absolutely sure I needed medical evacuation, because he was only obligated to bring me to Valmorel, and not back to Saint François Longchamp. By the third time, the pain was unbearable, and I could only say, “YES!”
He strapped me to a rescue sled, and I slid down the mountain, collecting fresh snow in my face along the way. An ambulance took me to the hospital, where the doctor (bless his soul) tried his best to realign my arm. After X-rays and a handful of painkillers, I finally dozed off.
When I woke up, I panicked. WHERE was my phone? WHAT time was it? HOW would I get back to Saint François Longchamp?
Then came the worst news: getting back to Saint François Longchamp from Valmorel would cost 600€.
Cue panic mode.
I requested my roommate to check Uber and Bolt-150€ to 250€, much better, but no one picked me up. After 40 minutes of futile attempts, a kind medical assistant called a taxi for me.
The driver arrived, and I hurriedly got in-on the wrong side. “Other side,” she said, clearly amused. It was only then that I remembered that in Malaysia, the passenger seat is on the left, and I hadn’t sat in a car since coming to France. As I settled into the right seat, I glanced at the steering wheel, and suddenly realized something: this woman was driving a Porsche.
As she drove, my heart pounded-not from pain, but because the fare kept climbing. 100€… 200€… 400€-I watched my bank account shrink in real-time.
At last, I arrived back at Saint-Francois-Longchamp, arm in a sling, wallet much lighter. Selena helped me haul my belongings upstairs, where I collapsed onto the bed. The good news? I had insurance. The bad news? This is France, and the wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly. So, while I wait for the paperwork to process, at least I can say I survived the trip-just not quite in one piece.
I had convinced myself that I was the unluckiest person on this ski trip. Who else ended up soaring off a slope like a misguided rocket, paying a small fortune for a Porsche taxi ride, and staring down a hospital bill?
Turns out, I wasn’t the only casualty. My friend, Lu-Ann-who had seemed perfectly at ease on the slopes-was nursing her own dramatic tale. While I was busy wrangling with bandage and insurance forms, she was quietly recovering from a fractured pelvis, courtesy of an ill-fated blue run (and a tempting Nutella waffle!). Suddenly, my arm injury didn’t seem so unique.
Her experience taught me two things: one, mountains can be merciless to even the most confident skiers; and two, it’s strangely comforting to realize I wasn’t alone in my post-holiday misery. Here’s her side of the story:
I was incredibly excited to return to skiing after taking a few years off. Since my parents-who always preferred sandy beaches over snowy peaks-never learned to ski themselves, I mostly taught myself. Perhaps it was the mouthwatering aromas of raclette, tartiflette or even croziflette that pulled me back to a ski trip, more than my confidence in hitting the slopes again.
The first few days on the slopes were nothing short of exhilarating. I admit, there’s always that nagging anxiety on the bus ride-did I completely forget everything from last time? But once I hopped onto the first chairlift, felt the crisp mountain air, and made my initial descent, it all came rushing back: the thrill of gliding downhill, the pride of nailing a turn, and yes, the certainty of a tumble or two. Thankfully, Saint-François-Longchamp and Valmorel catered to every level of skiers, from green slope enthusiasts to black slope (or off-piste-if you dared) addicts.
Every morning, our apartment descended into chaos as we layered up, searched for misplaced gloves, and ski passes. Lugging skis and poles to the lifts felt like a mini workout in itself, but before long, we fell into a routine-one that, messy or not, felt like a real part of the ski experience.
During the day, it was all about carving fresh tracks from the moment the lifts opened until the very last chair (and watch out for anyone who didn’t hurry up to catch the last ski lift!). Evenings brought a shift in energy: lively bars, bowling alleys, or cozy restaurants dishing up cheesy local specialties, accompanied by some juicy stories (of course, what happens on the ski trip stays on the ski trip!). In any case, my favourite moment was après-ski: the sweet relief of swapping ski boots for something more comfortable and savouring a warm drink or snack beside the slopes.
On the last day, determined to squeeze out every drop of fun before the dreaded chore of packing-I decided to tackle the notorious “Mollaret” piste. It’s sold as a gentle blue run, but fueled by the thought of a Nutella waffle waiting at the finish line, I let myself pick up speed. Then, one badly judged turn sent me flying a few meters forward; worse yet, my ski ended up tumbling 50 meters in the opposite direction, while I continued to roll downhill.
The pain hit me right away, but in my invincible state of mind, I took a few sips of water, gritted my teeth and motivated myself once again to finish this hell of a run. Reality only set in after I reached flat ground, when a sharp jolt reminded me that something was seriously wrong. A quick visit to the doctor later, the diagnosis became official: a fractured pelvis and a mandatory hospital stay. Suddenly, I felt like a real-life Alice in Wonderland, trapped in a room filled with tears-not so much from pain, but because I’d miss the bus home, school, and everything else my friends would be enjoying without me.
Sure enough, the bus departed without me, my belongings packed away while I stared gloomily out the hospital window. When the ambulance finally arrived on the 19th, it was a bizarre kind of freedom. Since then, life has been a steady cycle of bed rest, injections, physical therapy, and lots of painkillers. On the bright side, I now have a memorable tale to tell. These days, I hobble around with comically awkward crutches, and whenever people ask what happened, I simply shrug and say: “Blame the waffle.”
But rest assured-I’ll be back on the slopes next year. After all, if a fractured pelvis can’t keep me off the mountain for good, nothing can (except the hospital, ambulance and insurance bills)!
Le Dragon Déchaîné 