The alarm screamed. I tumbled over and smack the top of the clock. Sluggishly I gather my attire: my jacket, then pants, then boots, then my helmet, and finally my gloves.

In the hotel room, I sweat, but outside, the cool breeze pierces my cheek bones and the intense sun reflects off the snow blinds me, so I pull up my bandana and pull down my goggles. The sight is majestic. I am home.

First in line for the chair lift, I climb and climb and climb, higher and higher and higher. It feels like an eternity waiting for the top of the mountain to come. And finally after hours of waiting, or so it feels, we unload. The wind whips up both sides of the mountain, and at the peak they collide in tornadoes of swirling snow. I pull my bandana down and take a deep breath. I am home.

On the edge of the cliff I stare down at the rocks popping through the blanket of snow. I plan my path of attack and jump. It feels like I’m floating, my board barely scraping the snow because the run is almost straight down. Dodging the trees and rocks, whipping back and forth back and forth, picking up speed with every second, back and forth back and forth, flying off of snow drifts, going back and forth back and forth. I am home.

The run is over in minutes. On the mountain, I leave a trail. The snow melts by the end of the season and no one will know I was even there. But I’ll know.