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The spectacle I recall: I kept my eyes on the horizon (as trained), hit on foot, rolled (as trained) to an uninjured flop stop and lay there. I believe I said, "holy shit". Then I had to bunch up the chute and wait about 45 minutes, comtemplating the distance to the nearest farm house while listening on the radio to the irritated crew as they tried to find me. Oh, and wonder who was walking down below when my swell new gloves fell as a gift from heaven. Damn. Those were nice leather ski gloves.
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