I lay in the fluffy, abundant powder. The snow holds me in its arms comfortably. I barely even feel the cold – the snow is a warm and familiar bed. My skis lay by my side, poles erect in the ground, while I stop to lay down and soak in the beauty. Gazing upward, I see a cluster of tall, green pine trees. They stare back down at me as if wondering when I will get up. A particularly large cluster of these trees sits on my left, creating a thick unknown. Between their spiny branches, the blaring blue sky busts through. It urges me to keep going, down the hill and back to humanity. Just below that I can see the rest of the mountain range. From my position lying on the ground, they look like a towering, dark citadel.
With their flecks of brown land scattered about throughout all the white, they remind me that I have yet to ski that side yet. The mountain I lie on keeps me entrapped. One could cut through the fresh snow like butter. It’s a blank canvas – white, pristine, and untouched. This canvas lays all around me: the eager artist sitting in the middle. A faint pine scent drifts just below my nose. Possibility hangs in the empty, silent air.
It appears as if no humans have ever set foot here – though it being a ski resort, that’s probably unlikely. Right now, it feels like my own little winter haven.
Ever since probably age 8, I have fantasized about growing up to be a ski bum. No joke. I was never a cute, girly child who wanted to become a princess, doctor, or whatever little girls want to be. I wanted to go to Vail. I wanted to go to Whistler. I wanted a dog named after Alta (or maybe that’s just what my equally ski-crazed dad told me). I wanted to ski every continent. Thirteen years later and I have accomplished the first three at least!
My parents always hated the idea. Dad told me that “ski bum” isn’t an acceptable job title, yes even if I run chairlifts or something on the side. As I grew older, he (and others) joked about my dream of life in the Rockies only consisting of other, erm, recreational activities in Colorado if you catch my drift. Sorry to disappoint, but those types of activities aren’t the goal here.
The goal isn’t Olympic skiing or anything crazy like that. Hell, my younger brother kicked my butt in races for at least 10 years straight. Not to mention my screwed up knees, or my strange habit of randomly performing 180s in order to backwards: both not Olympically acceptable.
The goal is adrenaline. The goal is freedom. The goal is to dip and dive through fresh powder, living carefree. To live in nature.
With much hesitation, I pick myself up off of the snow. One by one, I snap my skis back onto my feet. Though excited to continue down the mountain, I’ll miss my quiet little spot in the middle of Whistler, British Columbia. Laying there for only a minute, I felt all the beauty and culture that mountains can hold.
Now, back to class.
