8,000 ft up in the air above sea level– no thought, nothing, like a blank white canvas and the sound of wind rolling over the snow with small icy snowflakes tapping on your ski goggles. My mom shivering asking how much further up the mountain we have to climb. I try to placate her by telling her a few more steps knowing there will be another 2 hours of climbing ahead of us. 

Finally the 8,000 ft marker; cotton candy stretched as far as it can go in the form of clouds. To the right in the distance my mom uses the binoculars to make an assertion of 100 miles of what seems to look like a little hut as the only sign of life around us. But we are not at the bottom of the mountain right now– and there is only one way to get down there. 

As me and my mom put up our boots into our backpacks and snap our ski boots into the bindings of the skis, the little “click” that ricochet shades off the rocks behind us quickly gets dampened by the sound of the smallest, slushy, snowflakes in the world pelting into the plexiglass and fiberglass of out ski goggles and helmet. 

The first steps over the miniature plateau that was allowing us to hold in our fears for a moment had quickly vanished as discretion of how safe our ski gear was started to cloud our heads. But it was time, as we slid across the snow moving our feet without picking them up, the compacting sound of the snow under our skis was eminent. 

Slowly making it down the mountain as I'm 10 feet in front of my mom, the feeling of happiness, and nervousness are mashed into one. I look down at my skis to see the fluffy snow part way for me and allow a path for my skis to rip right through. Watching this moment was surreal, but I couldn't help but notice the lightning shaped split of snow appearing from behind me to infront of me and all around. I look behind in shock, screaming and pointing to my mom. But it was too late.