Learning to ski: a fond memory

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The sun glistened down on a frosty, bitter December morning. The air was so clear and crisp; you could see for miles in every direction. Vibrantly colored hats and mittens littered the horizon like confetti on New Years Eve. Most of the snow on the hills was that glossy, jet-blown, artificial snow, because of the lack of natural snow so far this season. Not exactly the best kind of snow for learning how to ski.

I boldly made my way to the chairlift looming ahead. I hopped on the frosty cold bench, and after a short, tense ride I was at the peak of an intermediate slope. I slowly gazed around, absorbing my surroundings. The crunch of skis gliding over ice echoed in my ears. I could hear the cheerful laughter of children shouting to their friends as they effortlessly breezed down the hill. The frigid air smelled crisp, fresh, and clean. The bottom of the slope seemed dreadfully distant. Nevertheless, I securely gripped my poles in my hands and prepared for my descent.

My knees felt weak as I plunged downward only to roll on my backside. After several attempts I finally remained upright for increasingly longer runs. It was a breathtaking sensation, soaring over the feathery snow, fighting for balance and dodging trees. It was enough to pump your heart straight through your ribcage.

Slowly I gained a tepid confidence, until at last I believed I was ready to successfully embark upon some of the more tricky spots. I spent a lot of time repeating self-assuring statements to myself until I was convinced that I could attempt a black diamond slope.

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The air was even more bitter during the seemingly endless incline up the treacherous

Horvath 2

slope. Once I reached the top I gazed enviously at the confident descents of other skiers. They looked as if they hadn't a care in the world. In fact I could almost catch a glimpse of

joyful delight as they whooshed off the lift and whizzed by me, frozen there on the platform. I eventually plunged forward and tried to crouch down to pick up speed. That's when reality hit me. I proceeded to do an aerial front flip directly into a patch of ice-crusted snow. I lay there perplexed for several minutes, questioning whether the cold I felt was my body going numb. I figured that I had had enough of skiing and would take a much-needed break in the lodge. Little did I realize that the lodge was, in fact, near the base of the hill, and I had not yet passed the halfway point. What followed was similar to a meteor drastically crashing into the Earth's surface, producing many craters. Had I been of sound mind and body, I would have thought to videotape the ordeal in hopes of winning on America's Funniest Home Videos.

Crawling into the crowded ski lodge, I pulled my steamy, muggy goggles off my face. I could barely make out my surroundings through the coating of ice that had formed on my eyelids. The aroma of greasy pizza and French fries filled my nose. I grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and allowed the warm liquid to slide down my throat. I managed to find a chair and began thawing my numb toes and emptying the damp snow out of my boots. Gradually the tingling feeling in my limbs began to subside and I think I actually was getting my normal five senses back. I turned and gazed out the window. Light fluffy snowflakes were diminishing from the sky and the sun shimmered through the glass. The rejuvenated skiers were rising from their brief hibernation and pulling on their wooly caps and gloves heading back to their winter fun on the frozen slopes. For a moment I considered joining them, but I was too far lost in my thoughts of golden sun-drenched beaches and the gentle lapping waves of the ocean on my bare toes. ZZZZZZ…

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