I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child might play with. The towering smokestacks of the factories would not have caught my eye had it not been for the tiny stream of gray emerging from them. At this distance, the smoke spiraled upward like tree branches reaching for the sky.The air was painful and stung me through my many layers of clothing. There was snow all around me. It was on the trail and in the trees. There was so much white, that my eyes became blinded by so much absence of color.It was too cold to remain at the top forever, so I decided to make my run. I decided to go off terrain through the trees. I gave a strong push with my poles, starting my skis sliding gently across the snowy terrain. I kept my speed slow in order to feel out the mountain and its changing conditions. Ahead of me lay a carpet of white snow totally untouched by other skiers; a skier's dream. The steepness of t...
