This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

The other week I got tripped up on the Funny-Stupid Line.

The Funny-Stupid Line is familiar territory to those of us who like outdoor sports but are terrible athletes. You want to try something hard, with full knowledge that you're going to look incompetent (funny). But you're moderated by the probability that you'll also get hurt (stupid) or hurt someone else (negligent).

Skilled athletes and adventurers may from time to time approach the Crazy-Stupid Line, or even the Amazing-Stupid Line.

We clods aspire only to the Funny-Stupid Line.

That's where I found myself when I decided to attempt the 2002 Olympic women's downhill run at Snowbasin.

I was up there shooting video and testing out some tools and techniques to improve my skiing (results to be reported here next week). I took the Allen Peak Tram to Snowbasin's highest point, hoping at least to enjoy the view and maybe attempt the Olympic men's course, the start of the infamous Grizzly run.

"Is this going to be funny or stupid?" I asked as I peered down between the two rocky summit crags at the Grizzly starting gate.

I couldn't see most of the run. A tiny skier slid into view far below, at the end of the first steep pitch.

"Stupid," I determined, and took the side road down to the John Paul Lodge.

The Wildflower run was the women's course. It appeared slightly more reasonable. I still couldn't fathom TRYING to ski fast down something so long and steep. But I thought I could at least get down it without undue panic.

Things I failed to consider at that moment:

• I had been skiing for hours, and my legs were more pooped than I realized.

• the sun was dropping behind the mountain, and the previously-warmed snow was now cold and scratchy.

• I would psyche myself out while waiting for other skiers to clear the run. It's hard to describe how vertigo-inducing this slope is for a not-awesome skier. Digital maps show the run dropping about 500 vertical feet in just 1,000 feet of trail. If I've ever skied anything this steep before, it was in deep, fluffy snow.

My legs wobbled as I started moving, and I knew I was on the wrong side of the funny-stupid line. I figured my best bet was to just snowplow through a couple of turns until I was more comfortable.

That was my fatal error.

"You can't just lean into the hill," explained Ashley Watts, manager of Snowbasin's Snow Sports School. "That's causing you to fall."

And fall I did. For 50 seconds. Camera rolling.

It occurred to me while I was tumbling and spinning down the mountain that I had no idea how to avoid getting hurt. Should I try to slow myself down by digging in the edges of my skies? Should I tuck and roll? Should I go limp and hope for the best? Should I point my feet in front of me? Or is that just for when you fall out of a boat in a river?

These are things you have time to think about when you fall for almost a full minute.

I turned to Watts for some Monday-morning quarterbacking. Watts himself acquired the nickname "Crash" early in his ski career, so he was not without sympathy.

"When I fall, especially if its something I'm going to slide on, I want to get my feet kind of up in the air but still downhill," he said.

Feet downhill can prevent the head from being the first point of impact with hazards, he explained. But it's important to avoid the temptation to use the skis' edges to slow down.

"I don't want them grabbing and catching because I don't want a leg injury," Watts said. The tendons that hinge the knees aren't the most durable bits on a human body; they require the right kind of support from surrounding muscles. When you're falling, the muscles might not be in a position to handle the force of sudden friction on a ski's edge.

"If we're going too fast and we fall and put a ski down, there's a pretty big lever on that ski," Watts explained.

Reviewing the video footage of my fall, I feel lucky I didn't blow a knee. I kept trying to dig in my skis, each impact propagating a small eruption of snow. I also am relieved I didn't injure my arms, which flailed about as I grasped for control.

Eventually, I just gave up and let the mountain take me down the hill.

Unless you're headed toward trees, boulders or a mogul field, Watts said, that's probable the best option.

"Sooner or later, you will come to a stop," he said. "It may be after a long time, but sliding on your back you'll probably be fine."

With any luck, you'll come to a stop on the funny side of the Funny-Stupid Line.

ealberty@sltrib.com

Twitter: @erinalberty