Charlotteb Dworshak
Mr. Braam
CP English 10
Personal Narrative
Oct. 1, 2015
Going down Cold Tree Hill
I scrape the snow off my skis as I sit on the chair and wait. It is made of metal that has been turned white with the frigid air. I think about how cold it was last night and how the chair must have been in the middle of the night. I shiver at the thought. I look at my torn gloves and ball my hands up to keep them warm. A gust of wind comes as I protect my face by tipping it down. It is snowing in big clumps, and I try to catch one on my tongue. I do; it instantly melts like cotton candy. I stare straight at the falling snow and watch it tease me by coming straight at my goggles but never hitting them.
I watch some of the tourists and chuckle to myself as they walk down the hill with their skis crossed in their hands. At that moment I feel my momentum leaving me: The lift begins to slow. How long will it be this time? I think. When it finally comes to a complete stop, the chair is right at a pole. Number 16. It is supposed to be green, but these past few nights has turned it a cold white.
Since I stopped on a pole, I am allowed one wish. Though partially miserable at the moment, I decide. When they shut the lift down, you really realize you are in the mountains. It is cold and the wind howls more now that the chair has stopped. It really is the only thing I can focus on.
I tip my head down and stare at a tree through my two skis. It is white from all that I can see. A buzzing noise starts to form as I lift my head back up. I feel my momentum coming back; the lift has started again. I watch each snow-covered tree go by below and think what it must be like to be a tree, to stay in one place your whole existence, not seeing anything but the view you sprouted from, staying out in the night, letting the ice weigh you down.
I feel my lungs fill up with cold air as I inhale all I knew of winter. As I let it out, I watch the steam-like air rise and then vanish into the gray sky. I pull up my wet scarf and lift the bar over my head and let it clang on the top of the chair, a noise I have heard so many times in my life. I wiggle my toes and feel nothing, but this is normal; I don’t give it much thought. I lift my skis toward the sky and scoot myself to the edge of the chair; my skis hit the heavily used snow. I don’t need to look; I can always feel with the bottom of my skis and know I have hit the snow.
I push off to a glide and relax my body, letting myself drift to the knoll. Just before I go over, I feel my entire body shiver with the glacial air. I let my speed increase and go over, until I have enough momentum to start turning. I cut into my first turn; the snow feels perfect: heavily packed but the wind and the snow have made it fresh. I turn quickly and try to get that pressure on my legs.
This is what I live for.
I watch the same trees I had seen on my way up zip past. They look much bigger now, how cold they must be with the snow and ice taking over their limbs. My mind wanders again to warmth as I try to imagine the lodge and hot chocolate and a fire. I lift my shoulders to make the collar of my jacket go over my nose which I could feel was getting white with frostbite. I know this feeling well, a stinging feeling that bites harshly.
I stop, hockey style, and take my hand out of my glove and cover my nose to warm it. I pull my scarf over my nose and continue down the mountain, over another knoll and then float down the steep hill. I hit powder. I turn out of it and push for more speed, accelerating, feeling the frostbite coming back as I go faster and faster down the hill. I come around the last turn and see the lift, using my momentum to carve five more turns and glide to the lift entrance. There is no wait.
The lift man smiles at me with his bright red coat on, his beard covered with snow and frost. To be out on the hill doing what you love in the cold is one thing, but to stand out in the cold watching everyone do what you love seems so hard to me. I take another deep breath and pull myself to the rotating chair, shift my weight and journey back up to the top of Cold Tree Hill, covering my nose with my glove as I stare down at the trees.