Skiing - Creative Essay

I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day,
arriving at the summit of Bosquets Mountain, nestled in the heart of the
Berkshires. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the
sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed
anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the damp, musty, stale scent
in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white
flakes overtook the mountain.

As I readied myself to make the first run, I took a moment to
appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here.
The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my
nose. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my
face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It's strange how the gray
clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really didn't appear
that high anymore. If I had a tall enough ladder, I mig ht be able to
touch them. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed
unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier
looked like dollhouses a child might play with. The towering smokestacks
of the factories wou ld not have caught my eye had it not been for the tiny
stream of gray emerging from them. At this distance, the smoke spiraled
upward like tree branches reaching for the sky.

The air was raw and stung me through my many layers of clothing.
There was snow all around me. It was on the trail and in the trees. There
was so much white, that my eyes became blinded by so much absence of color.

It was too cold to remain at the top forever, so I decided to make
my run. I gave a strong push with my poles, starting my skis sliding
gently across the snowy terrain. I kept my speed slow in order to feel out
the mountain and its changing conditions. Ahead of me lay a carpet of
virgin, white snow totally untouched by other skiers. A skier's dream.
The steepness of the mountain increased my speed as the cold air whistled
past my ears. I edged my skis which responded to perfection , cutting into
the snow and tracking across the mountain.

As I gained speed by the second, my turns grew in length.
Approaching the steepest part of the trail, I noticed an imperfection in
the snow. A large bump jutted itself out of the ground, waiting to devour
skiers. Unfortunately I noticed t he bump too late to adjust my turns and
change my course to avoid it. As my right ski passed over it, my cold
muscles were unable to absorb the shock sent to my leg. The sudden jerk of
my ski sent it screaming off of my foot, leaving only a ski boo t behind.
Unable to keep my balance, I leaned forward, sending my head on a course
straight for the ground. My face was so cold it felt like it was on fire.
I spun and tumbled as my inertia pulled me down the mountain. My arms and
legs ached as they pounded into the snow. I finally stopped after the
mountain had enough fun with me. I stood up, painted with snow. The snow
on my face melted, leaving drops of water trickling into my mouth. As I
looked up the hill, I noticed my two skies, m y poles and goggles some
thirty feet above me. I put aside the throbbing pain of my muscles for the
moment and began to climb up the mountain to retrieve my equipment. I had
a lot of climbing to do and was winded as I stepped back into my skis. I
thought about the near disaster as I began to make my way, more cautiously
than usual down the mountain. As I neared the bottom of the mountain, I
realized I had avoided a trip down the mountain in the dreaded ski patrol
sled. I smiled to myself as I skied back into the lift line for my next
run down the mountain.