Skiing. It frees me. Plummeting down those icy slopes at near-mach speeds somehow allows me to forget about all the troubles of life and simply be. All that matters is the texture of the snow and the friction between it and my skis. Left, right. Down I go. Turning only occasionally to slow myself. This is what I was put here to do. I am one with the mountain. Anything and everything is superficial when contrasted with the pure nonthinking bliss of something so simple as getting to the bottom. Why? I have no idea. Nevertheless, I love it.

That last question hangs for a moment in my head, a slash of red against the black void of thoughtlessness within which I usually reside. Distant sensations slide across my mind: scratchy sweater tickling my skin, a cold wind freezing tears and raising goosebumps on my arms, excited voices and the buzz of the snow makers and the soft whoosh-whooshing sound of metal edges on fresh powder—all inconsequential as I race myself to the ski lift. I arrive at the rope barriers to find no prize waiting for me, no crowd of cheering fans. Just a long line of babbling strangers and a lift chair ride between me and the top.

The line is slow, but eventually I make it to the front. The light turns green. I push off of the gate and wait for my chair to approach. The edge of the unpadded seat thwacks against the back of my knees, forcing me to a hard sit as I grumble under my breath at the lift attendant. I pull the lap bar down and tuck my poles snugly under my leg as the chair begins to rise into the air. My thoughts wander through time as I make the long ascent.

I’m five again, and it is my first day skiing anywhere besides my own backyard. I’m with my family and ready to test out my brand new Christmas-present skis. My mom has decked me out with the hippest in late-80’s winter apparel: a bright purple-and-green snowsuit, multicolored knit hat (complete with flaps to cover my ears) and over-sized wool mittens. I hit the bunny slope and, after some initial troubles with the tow lift, am sliding down with relative ease. My dad is teaching me to snowplow and after a few runs I am able to do it on my own. The air is cold, and before long I find myself back at home sipping hot chocolate, but not before signing up for weekly ski-wee lessons.

I’ve always looked back on those lessons with disgust. They were only really helpful for the first year or two, until I found my sense of balance and began to conquer the trails on my own. They were a substitute for daycare, really. Somewhere for me to stay while my dad skied the big stuff.

The year is 1999, and I am thirteen. I glance again at my watch and wonder when yet another painfully boring lesson will be over, how long it will be until I can ditch those unskilled brats with whom I have the misfortune of sharing an instructor and get back to skiing the fun trails. “That’s it for today’s lesson, guys. Have fun skiing.” I bolt for the metal gate that marks the entrance to the ski lift. The lines are oddly short today, and I suddenly find myself staring at an ant-sized Salt Lake City more than a mile below me, searching for the small hotel room I share with my father. My hair whips in the breeze as I fly down the slopes, cutting through trees and flying over jumps.

I am snapped back to the present by pole number 117, onto which someone has slapped a sticker that assures me “mean people suck, nice people blow.” Conditions are good today: not too much wind, still-fluffy powder from yesterday’s snowfall, temperatures warm enough for a mere three layers. A flock of sparrows flies overhead, looking like little black pieces of paper floating against the gray and blue sky.

Rewind to last year. I’m at Blue Mountain – a small but local ski resort – with two of my good friends. We’re about to ski the unfortunately small terrain park. Todd goes first, skipping the first jump to get more speed for the second, then popping into the air and touching the tips of his skis. I start down, pushing with my skis to get going faster, faster, then suddenly up the steep incline and sailing through the air over the flat tabletop, grabbing my bindings as I go. I land with a satisfying thump on the downhill slope and keep going, sliding across the top of a mailbox rail and launching myself into space again at the second jump. I meet Todd at the lift and we talk while waiting for Igor to arrive.

The minutes tick past and still he hasn’t shown up. Finally, we see him slowly skating his way towards us. Apparently, Igor had attempted a back flip on the big jump and landed face first in the snow. The whole ride up the lift he was asking strange questions and acting confused. We thought he was just joking around, but it turns out he had received a minor concussion from the fall.

I’ve been lucky enough to not have been seriously injured in all my years of skiing (if you don’t count one high speed meeting of elbow and tree and a few twisted ankles here and there), even though I tend to ski somewhat dangerously, oftentimes leaving the designated trails in favor of woods or jumping down rocks or cliffs that no sane man would go near. I feel that a large part of the exhilaration comes from the knowledge that one tiny slip-up is all that it would take to put me in a bad place.

A sign telling me to “prepare to unload” whizzes by as the lift I’ve been riding nears its destination. I raise the lift bar, grip my poles tightly, and elevate my ski tips so that they don’t catch the ground.

As I push myself from the cold, hard plastic of the chair, I get the feeling that I am just about the happiest person on earth. Gravity pulls me down the small lift hill. I pause for a moment to adjust my gloves and admire the view, then make my way over to the seeming drop to oblivion (which bears the appropriate name “Outer Limits”). Again, I pause, eyes scanning for the best route. I see a middle-aged woman lose her balance. Her arms flail and before she knows it she is laying face down thirty feet below her skis. She was not meant for this trail.

I smile to myself as I move over the edge.