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 migh...
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
At 6pm on a Saturday evening, Sally and her parents were on their way to go skiing for their 20th time. The whole family was extremely excited and looking forward to this, especially since the place was somewhere they’d never been to before. As they were in the car, Sally was daydreaming about what the place would look like, and wondered if her worst fear would be there: ski lifts. Everything about this scared her. The car is out in the open, has no roof, and the ride could malfunction at any time. Since this unanswered question was on her mind now, she decided to ask her parents to see if they knew. “I’m just wondering, do either of you know if there are going to be ski lifts at the place?” Both of her parents paused in confusion but didn’t
I approach the rugged mountain, shielding my body from the nasty frost nipping at my exposed skin. The sun ever so lightly peeks over the horizon as I strap on my skis, lightly dusted with a thin layer of fresh snow. Although my body shivers unceasingly, I feel comforted by the surges of adrenaline pumping through my body. I skate briskly toward the ski lift to secure my place as the first person in line. On the slippery leather seats of the lift my mind races, contemplating the many combinations of runs I can chain together before I reach the bottom of the hill. I arrive at the peak of the mountain and begin building up speed. Floating on the soft snow, weaving through the trees and soaring over rocks, I feel as if I am flying. The rush of adrenaline excites me. I feed on it. I thrive on it. I am ski; I live for speed; I am an evolving technique and I hold a firm edge.
I wasn’t even outside but I could feel the warm glow the sun was projecting all across the campsite. It seemed as if the first three days were gloomy and dreary, but when the sun on the fourth day arose, it washed away the heartache I had felt. I headed out of the trailer and went straight to the river. I walked to the edge, where my feet barely touched the icy water, and I felt a sense of tranquility emanate from the river. I felt as if the whole place had transformed and was back to being the place I loved the most. That day, when we went out on the boat, I went wakeboarding for the first time without my grandma. While I was up on the board and cutting through the wake of the boat, it didn’t feel like the boat was the one pulling and guiding me, it felt like the river was pushing and leading me. It was always nice to receive the reassurance from my grandma after wakeboarding, but this time I received it from my surroundings. The trees that were already three times the size of me, seemed to stand even taller as I glided past them on the river. The sun encouraged me with its brightness and warmth, and the River revitalized me with its powerful currents. The next three days passed by with ease, I no longer needed to reminisce of what my trips used to be like. Instead, I could be present in the moment, surrounded by the beautiful natural
As the plane slowly descended to a lower altitude, I took off my seatbelt quickly, eager to see the extent of the view. I stood up excitedly to see the whole scenery. When it landed, I eagerly grabbed the items and went out of the plane. The smell of air was different here. It was cold mountain fresh air. Before all I’m familiar with is air pollution. That day, I knew it was a lot different here.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
“Skiers” creates some sort of a winter scene image with skiers descending from a top of a mountain. In the beginning of the poem as it talks about the skiers descending “with motion of angels, out/ of Snow-spume and swirl of gold mist, they/ Emerge to a positive sun. (1-3) gives us the idea that the view from the bottom isn’t quite clear because they are rapidly descending from the top of the mountain. From a far way one can only guess they are some sort of creatures “with the color of birds or of angels” (5) because they look very tiny and are moving very rapidly. As the start getting to the bottom of the mountain, their true identity starts showing as “they slowly emerge to our eyes (9). One can begin to see that they aren’t the birds, angles or these weird creatures we thought they were from a distance. But as they were mistaken for other things such as creatures with no identity, they aren’t as comfortable as they should be. Instead, “They are awkward, not well adjusted/ to this world, new and strange, of time and/ Contingency, who are now only human.” (13-16). they are limited to their full potential and can only go as far as society perceives
The narrator describes the Yukon as “bleak,” “cold,” “gray” and as an “indescribable darkness” (London 64). The lack of sun is highlighted numerous times, and it is noted that “it had been days since he had seen the sun” (London 64). The narrator also expresses the barren and frigid temperatures that exist as the man sets off on his journey “the Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice” “as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white” (London 65). The man’s spit freezes before it hits the ground (London 65) and the narrator states that it is “Fifty degrees below zero” (London 65). The man dismisses this life-threatening reality and considers it as “cold and uncomfortable, at that was all” (London 65). In the face of the overwhelming deadliness of the Yukon, the man “was not able to imagine” (London 65) that the effects of the winter could end his life. The man’s poor decisions stem from his underestimation of nature. He dismisses the frigid temperatures because to him they are nothing more than a numerical indicator of temperature and not a reality of the brutal environment that he is traveling through. The man further underestimates the risk that exists when he leaves the trail knowing that there are hidden dangers under the snow. He knew that Henderson Creek was just below the ice and snow but decided to
London’s first attempt to create an alarming mood is when he describes the almost invisible trail and heavy snow the Yukon has experienced. London writes that “The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light” (23). The reader is first alarmed by the unseen trail that London explains occurred due to a heavy snowfall, which further alludes the reader to the dangers of this man’s travel and the alarming mood of the story. Furthermore, cold weather once again contributes to the setting when London describes the man’s body in the cold. Once the man’s body starts to shake and tremble, London claims that he is “losing the battle with the frost” (33). The setting of the cold and the frost has now caught up with the seemingly invincible man, creating an alarming and dangerous mood as he runs out of body heat and energy. The bitterly cold setting has now lead to an alarming mood due to the death of the man. Through his detailed use of setting, London can effectively convey an alarming
Skiing was not my forte or my favorite thing to do. I was furious at the way I tumbled down the slope. I was hurt by falling and tumbling through the freezing cold snow and ice. I just wanted to go home, anywhere but here. My confidence had hit rock bottom. My face red and frozen from crying. I was thinking there was some other way down but there wasn’t.
In the digital article titled, “Snow Fall: The Avalanche at Tunnel Creek”, John Branch writes about the avalanche at Tunnel Creek that affected a group of 16 skiers on February 19th 2012. Published by the New York Times, this web text is an engaging piece of writing to regular, online, New York Time readers because it displays a captivating analysis of the people affected by the avalanche and it uses computer-animated pictures to help the readers visualize the text. The readers will be enlightened about this avalanche in Washington as well as information about the history of the Cascades mountain range, background stories of the skiers, and the aftermath of the avalanche. Branch’s written work is effective in attracting his readers because
In his article, “Let it Snow,” David Sedaris takes us into a personal perspective of his life. He tells a childhood story in a way that makes his readers feel emotionally connected to some of his exciting turned difficult encounters as a child. By sharing a time of the past, Sedaris not only explains the thrill of the accumulating snow, but he unleashes the blatant issues beyond the snow. Sedaris describes a fun day in the snow with his siblings; however, they return home to his mother having a breakdown. Sedaris writes that their “presence had disrupted the secret life she led while we were at school, and when she could no longer take it she threw us out” (quoted in Faigley 421). Sedaris’s article unveiled a darkness that lied far beyond the constant snow, all while maintaining an upbeat mood of the piece throughout its entirety, helping to build the anticipation as the conflict approaches.
I sat beside my car window, watching the dark mountains appear through the blinding fog, growing bigger and bigger. Biting the bottom of my lip, I hoped it would be an enjoyable day as numerous frightening thoughts began to fill up my brain. Slowly, my car came to a stop as I watched the people ski through the freezing gust of wind.
A mixture of ice and snow blanketed the semi-frozen, forest ground. The ice was like razors on my bare feet. The crisp, December air burned my lungs and stung my skin. My feet thudded rhythmically against the ground. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins. Every part of me wanted to give up—to stop, but I couldn’t.
This area of the world is so foreign to my Oklahoma life; it infuses me with awe, and with an eerie feeling of being strongly enclosed by huge mountains, and the mass of tall trees. However, when my foot first steps onto the dusty trail it feels crazily magical. The clean, crisp air, the new smell of evergreen trees and freshly fallen rain is mixed with fragrances I can only guess at. It is like the world has just taken a steroid of enchantment! I take it all in, and embrace this new place before it leaves like a dream and reality robs the moment. As I turn and look at my family, I was caught by my reflection in their impressions. The hair raising mischief in the car was forgotten and now it was time to be caught up in this newness of life. It was as if the whole world around us had changed and everyone was ready to engulf themselves in it. The trickling of water somewhere in the distance and the faint noise of animals all brought the mountains to