Part 7 (2/2)

Cara

At Last It's a perfect winter day.

No wind. No Arctic freeze.

Cloudless azure sky. A day to fly.

Snow drapes the mountain like ermine, fabulous feather- light powder coaxing me to flee the confines of my room, brave the mostly plowed road up to the closest ski resort.

To run from the cloying silence connecting Mom and Dad, into encompa.s.sing stillness far away from city dirt and noise.

Far above suburban gridlock.

Far beyond the grasp of home.

First Decent Day In Weeks Mt. Rose will be swarming by noon.

Good thing I got here early.

Nothing much better than first tracks beneath cloud-clear skies.

Heaven must be something like boarding on night-crisped virgin powder. Lingering atop a cornice, few other people in sight, I take a deep pull of winter-spiked air, finesse over the lip. Two sweeping turns to safety. Here, where there are no hypercritical eyes, I slip past denial, into the moment.

It's all up to me. Slide down the steeps, into belief. I am no more, no less than this ride.

Midmorning The crowd is starting to build.

Most people prefer the high- speed chairs, and those lines are long. Not sure why so few enjoy the old-fas.h.i.+oned slow lifts to the top, but I love these unrushed minutes. Suddenly the chair b.u.mps to a stop.

Problems below in the loading zone, no doubt. I look over at the racecourse run. The pines at its edges have grown. How long has it been since Conner and I raced there? Four years? Five? I was never fast enough to earn the medal I coveted. Conner often placed in the top three but never cared about winning. I've often wondered how twins could be so different. Why did the one with the talent lack the drive?

The Lift Starts Up Again I survey the terrain beneath me, find a relatively unpopulated route down through the trees. Risky to ride there alone, but I doubt I'll have a whole lot of trouble.

Despite my parents' lukewarm support, I've been skiing or boarding for years. I might not be as fast as Conner, but unlike him, I rarely take a fall. I disembark the chair, traverse the flats, brake to a stop beside a tall sugar pine, scan the landscape for the approximate path I saw. There. That's it, I think.

Swoop into the woods, slalom cedar and fir, each low branch a claw menacing my hair and face.

I manage to avoid them all.

What I don't miss is the boulder tip, lurking out of view, just beneath the surface of the snow.

It sc.r.a.pes my board, catching it just enough to send me, face forward, into a deep, wide drift.

I inhale snow. I swallow snow.

When I open my eyes, I see white.

I cartwheel my arms, but can't get traction. I bite back panic. Think.

For some weird reason, though I'm pretty much buried, I can breathe. What I can't seem to do is get myself out. I'm such an idiot!

I could die right now and who knows when they would find me?

Silent here, in my tomb. Warm.

I could sleep. That would be easy....

Suddenly I hear, Hang on.

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