The following does not strictly pertain to a feast. But I simply couldn't resist the urge to recount this tale of adventure, drama, and resuscitation. . . . and to marvel at the medicinal powers of chocolate and whiskey.

Mountaintop CPR

The Imperial Express carried us upwards into the snow clouds and wind of the Rockies. At 12,998 feet above sea level we were ejected from the chairlift and deposited onto a white platform of snow teetering over the rest of the resort, misted in frost crystals and gusting coils of air. From here the mountain sank beneath us revealing an array of angles from which one might attack the slope. Smooth undulations of piste and swashes of powder, treed meadows and stomach churning chutes; the options beckoned below.

Yet my father, ever in search of a more interesting way down the mountain, eschewed these proffered declines and marched instead towards to the base of a steep rise into the clouds. Beside the path a rickety sign swung ominously in the breeze; “Extreme Terrain,” it read in bold letters, and continued on to definitely wash its hands of responsibility for all those crazy enough to enter.

With various degrees of enthusiasm, the rest of us hauled skis onto shoulders and joined the line of people trudging snail-like up into the whiteness. “Now remember,” Dad boomed into the wind, “you’re at 13,000 feet. Take it easy.” And then he turned towards the hill and began to climb.

Shivering slightly and muttering to myself, I began to stump slowly and rhythmically into the thin air. All too familiar—climbing at high altitudes, weighed down by skis, boots, and mounds of clothing—this was something I had learnt how to do.

As a child these seemingly pointless climbs into the whiteout wilderness had formed the deepest level of hell through which I passed each ski holiday. I hated climbing: My legs ached, my feet dragged, and my lungs pinched under the lack of oxygen. At first I’d protest, throwing a massive tantrum at the beginning of any hike. Then, defeated in my efforts and depleted of energy I’d follow on, bawling continuously and tripping on chucks of ice. Gradually I learnt how to handle these climbs; conserving my energy for the exertion and settling into a steady rhythm of stepping and breathing. And I also developed a taste the rewards of climbing: the feel of untouched powder beneath my skis and the giddy sense of being on top of the world.

So this year as we shuffled upwards I didn’t waste energy on arguments but instead attacked the path. It was tough work; the thin air adept at eluding my lungs, leaving my head light and my heart thumping. Dad, however, was finding the climb even tougher, swaying with the effort and stopping frequently to catch his breath. He seemed to be crumpling under the strain of it and motioned for the rest of us to pass him. I stumped up the remaining slope, relieved to reach the summit but worried about my dad.

Eventually he lurched into view, stumbled over and sank exhausted onto the ground. For a moment I was seriously concerned; Dad is no Spring chicken and neither is he the most athletic of Adamses. However, once I realized that he was not on the point of death the whole situation took on an extremely comical air with Dad sprawled pathetically on the snow, groaning vociferously and frowning wrathfully at rest of us. For some reason known only to himself, he then began slathering sun screen lavishly over his face so that great streaks of the stuff glistened like leftover cake frosting on his nose, eyebrows, and ears.

We looked down at him, stifling giggles. “It’s not funny,” Dad bellowed. “I’ m older than all of you!” But the combined comic effect of his glowering countenance, besmirched face, and collapsed position on the snow was too much for me. I practically crumpled into helpless guffaws.

Then, feeling apologetic and lacking other resources, I offered him some chocolate for energy. He ate it with relish, frowning around at us all the while. My cousin Tom helpfully handed him a flask of whiskey which he then gratefully swigged. So while the rest of us stood by snickering, Dad took advantage of his temporary status as invalid and shouted demands for ever more portions of chocolate and nips from the flask. Like some fallen overindulgent Roman, he partook prodigiously of this potent sustenance before mustering enough energy to rise, regain his composure, and conquer the downhill slope.