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Hounded by powder
Contributed by: Amber Johnson on 1/17/2008

With each new snowfall, I used to become a veritable Pavlov's dog as I salivated over the conditions in the mountains. You see, I grew up in Canada where children are practically born wearing skates or skis (which brings new meaning to "labor pains" for mama).

I had always considered myself an advanced skier until I encountered my first huge snowfall as an adult. I was living in the United States and working as a publicist in the ski industry. The weatherman predicted record-breaking snow totals and I was on the mountain in record-breaking speed.

Nothing could have prepared me for the conditions on that perfect morning -- all was white, all was powder.

I hopped on the lift and gazed down upon all the skiers making their tracks in the soft, untouched snow. I saw the powder shoot up behind them as they connected with the very soul of that mountain and I imagined myself carving my own signature in the sea of white.

I was soon at the summit. I started down the bowl strong and fast, and the whole experience was almost surreal.

And then I turned.

Or rather, my body turned but my skis kept right on going. And I met the soul of the mountain in a way I had not anticipated: face first.

I laid there frozen in shock for a moment, and then attempted to dig my skis out underneath three feet of powder. Despite the fact that my foot was technically still attached to me, I had difficulties locating its whereabouts. Fortunately, I found it long enough to snap it back into the binding.

I blew off my little setback. After all, it was my first ski day of the season and I was still a bit rusty. With renewed vigor, I once again started my descent. Seconds later, I was down. And then again. And again.

Then I remembered the terrible truth: I did not know how to ski knee-deep powder!

Somehow in my visions of a perfect ski day, I had overlooked that minor detail. I soon became a flailing ski bunny in my miserable attempts. Gone was my perfect form, and gone was my morale for that "perfect" ski day.

And then the blizzard came.

I had forgotten my goggles. Blinded, gasping for breath with my legs screaming out in pain, I somehow made it down the mountain.

My ski day ended officially at noon.


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Showing 1-2 of 2 comments
Submitted By: Gladys Mercier
posted on 1/20/2008 @ 7:09:41 PM
Rated Story
You were brave to try it!
[Report as objectionable]
Submitted By: Brendan Leonard
posted on 1/18/2008 @ 11:57:37 AM
Rated Story
The first time I rode deep powder on a snowboard, I'm pretty sure my day was over at noon, too.
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Showing 1-2 of 2 comments
CONTRIBUTOR INFORMATION

Amber Johnson

Arvada , CO

Amber Johnson has posted 13 stories and 3 comments since joining on 9/14/2005. Amber Johnson 's average story rating is 5.
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