By Emma Hesselsweet | January 2022
I helped my dad heave the bar down on the lift half-mindedly; I was also watching the beautiful fresh powder sprinkling onto the barren frozen ground. When the frigid metal bar was down, I set my mittened hands on it, and dropped my chin on my gloved hands to watch my surroundings slowly pass by as the lift carried us up the mountain. Today, me and my dad were at Beaver Creek, skiing, because my mom and brother, Graham, were taking an Aiare 1 avalanche course, which I was apparently too young for.
I flew back into reality from my slight disappointment, the lift was halting to a slow stop just long enough to let us get off. I sailed off the lift, gliding through the crust of day-old-snow. My dad glanced at me to make sure I was ready, then we advanced to the sign of the run, paused, and then weaving around other skiers, floated down the mountain. My eyes flitted around, noting possible jumps and taking the occasional refreshing peek at the mountain on the horizon. I beelined for a patch of fresh powder, and looked down at my skis to watch the first mark in this fresh powder. And they were my marks.
We rode the lift up again, and all I felt was the peace of the mountain shining down on me like sunlight, and the snow gently easing down in the air, like the air was a peak, and the snow was skiing down it.
The Peace of Wild Things 