The icy wind slaps me in the face, blowing my hair every which way. My goggles are pressed hard against my face, and I can feel my skin starting to be indented. My hands are squeezed into fists so I don't loose feeling of them. The mountain is laied out before me, as I listen to the gentle hum of the chair lift, barely audible over the howling wind. The cushioned seat is covered by a centimeter of ice, giving me a reason to be terrified of falling off. My nose has gone totally numb, so I really can't smell anything, but I know if I did I would smell an overwhelming pine scent, mixed with the aroma of hot chocalate and cinammon rolls, which seems to want to settle over the whole Barker peak. I'm reaching the top of the mountain now, and the snow is starting to fall. The frigid whooshes of air cut through all my layers and I'm left chilled to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. The chairlift gets to the top, and a surge goes through me, erasing the cold. I am free and once I take off down the mountain all of my problems are simply blown out of my mind. My skis cut through the snow like butter, and I fly down the mountain, letting all the beauitiful snow covered pine trees fall behind me. The exhileration, the cold, and the fun : that's skiing.
In skiing I know that I am myself. I can hear myself think, and if I have troubles they evaporate when I hit the slopes. In skiing I can fly like a bird, speed like a racer (which I actually happen to be) and be as slow as a turtle. I am part of skiing, and skiing is part of me.