“Bar up!” my brother’s voice broke the long, peaceful silence of the ski lift ride to the top of the mountain.  We quickly lifted the metal bar above our heads, bent our knees, and let our skis rest on the upcoming ground beneath us.  My brother and I pushed off of the worn, black cushion of the seat, and coasted a few yards forward. 

We had finally reached an altitude of 13,050 feet.  The view was breathtaking—all I could see was mountains, trees, and snow for miles around.  The reduced amount of oxygen also seemed to be breathtaking, literally.  I stood there, admiring it all for a moment, until I snapped back into reality.  My exposed cheeks felt icy-cold from the chilly mountain breeze, so I pulled my facemask a little higher.  I looked down the side of the mountain, in search of my family, expecting to see their chartreuse “Amery Fire Department” jackets stand out against the snow.  Surprisingly, I saw them skiing straight across the top of the mountain, cross-country style, alongside a faded-orange boundary rope.  I tried to yell, “Where are you going?” but my voice was muffled by the fleece ski mask covering my mouth, so I just wiggled my thick gloves through the little straps on my ski poles, and followed.

Trying to ski cross-country using downhill skis is like trying to ride a tricycle at a Nascar race—it’s extremely difficult.  Every stride took all of my effort, mostly because my ankles were locked tightly in place by my sturdy, orange and white ski boots that allowed for no hinging motion.  Most of my forward mobility was due to my arms and ski poles pushing me along.  I had to miserably push myself about 120 yards straight across the mountain, where we came to the top of another ski lift.  Even so, by the time I caught up to my father and brothers, I was panting and out of breath.  The high altitude really wore me out. 

My stomach dropped when I realized that we were going to ski down the backside of the mountain, because I knew that the backside of the mountains at ski resorts tend to be the most difficult to ski down.  I was nervous for that moment, but then I got excited when I saw the wide-open slope beneath me that stretched about 300 yards, followed by a series of ungroomed paths that wove in between the massive pine trees—my favorite terrain.

“Let’s roll,” my dad said, then he took off down the mountain without another word. 

I waited momentarily, while my brothers each followed a few seconds behind him, one after the other.  Then, I pushed forward to the wintery abyss below.

Gaining speed quickly, I tucked my poles under my arms, hunched down, and tried to ski as fast as I could down the slope.  The wind rushed by me, or maybe I rushed by the wind.  The wild and free feeling, as I sailed through the immense and beautiful Rocky Mountains, was one of the greatest feelings ever.  I yelled “WAHOOOOO YAH!” as if it were just me and the mountain.  

My skis hit an icy patch of snow, causing my knees to break position and my balance to waver, but I held steady.  I gripped my poles tighter and could feel the toasty hand-warmers heat up in the palms of my hands.  The tree line of dark pines was approaching quickly, so I twisted my hips to slow down.  A calm silence overcame my ears again.  As I wove around branches and limbs, all I could hear was the quiet whoosh of my skis gliding over the snow, and the distant, steady rumble of the ski lift operating. 

I came to an open area filled with my second favorite terrain to ski—moguls.  Moguls are a series of bumps made of snow that cover an area of a ski slope, which skiers usually make sharp turns around.  I planted a ski pole on each round, hard-packed, snow mogul as I wove around them.  I went right, left, right, left, right—back and forth—as I made rapid turns around each mogul.  My leg muscles were burning as I shredded down the slope, but I hardly even noticed.  The moguls came to an end, so I skied through the scattered patches of trees that sat on the remaining stretch of the slope.  Ahead, I saw a small bump in the snow that was just the right size for a beginner skier to try and jump.  I knew I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, but I also knew that I was more likely to wipeout in the snow than I was to land correctly.  The very illogical side of my brain told me, “You only live once,” so I decided to try it out.  In that instant, I was just Allison Oman taking on the mighty Rocky Mountains. 

I definitely remember slowing down a lot before hitting the jump, but it must have been more momentum than I could handle, even for that small bump on the ground.  Right as the front end of my skis peered over the edge of the jump, the logical part of my brain kicked in and I started to fear for my life, or at least for my safety, at that point.  I panicked, lost all confidence in myself, sent up a quick prayer, flailed my arms around, and… landed on my feet.

Of course, I didn’t stay on my feet.  My momentum continued to carry the rest of my body forward and in front of my legs, which twisted sideways. I knew I was going down, and I was going down hard.  All of a sudden, my left ski was completely unattached from my left boot, but I didn’t have time to think about that because an instant later, I hit the hard snow on my side, and rolled a few paces down the mountain.  Though the impact was cushioned by my plush winter coat and fluffy snow pants, I still acquired a few bruises.  I laid there on my back for a second, thinking, “That was awesome, but it really hurt.”

About a minute later, I gently rolled over, brushed the snow off my shoulders, and stood up.  I sighed when I looked up and saw my left ski sitting ten yards above me. 

  Slowly, I trudged up the distance between me and my ski.  The ski was caked with snow, which took some scraping with my ski pole to remove.  I positioned the tip of my boot in the small front pocket, and pushed my heel down until I heard the satisfying “click” of the ski.  Then, I turned to close off the remaining distance between me and the base of the ski lift.  When I arrived at the base of the ski lift, I found my chartreuse-covered family waiting for me. 

“What took you so long?” my dad grinned.

“Nothing much, there were just a few obstacles in my way,” I replied. 

We exchanged a few more words as a family.  When we agreed that we should ride back up, my dad turned around, pushed forward with his ski poles, and smoothly mounted the chair lift.  My older brother joined him.  My younger brother and I slid onto the following chair.  We were lifted forward and up, then everything was silent, except for the low rumble of the chair lift engine.  My brother produced two halves of a sandwich from his coat pocket, one of which he started to munch on.  He offered me the other half, but I was hardly listening.  My mind was in awe of the peacefulness and beauty of the nature that surrounded me.  All that came out of my mouth was “You know what?  Life is good.”