The Accident of 6 Years Ago
Everyone recalls a memory of a horrendous accident when they are kids, for me it is the sinful accident at a ski resort in Japan. The event happened six and a half years ago on March 22, 2007. I was only an “innocent” nine year old, attempting my first shot at skiing. Even today, I still remember the dreadful fall into cavernous sludge, being stuck there for what felt like ages, panicking and yelping for help. This trip was meant to be a holiday, but as it commenced, it turned out to be the opposite.
It was a frosty day with temperatures at below negative two Celsius at the resort. At first glance outside the window, the snow piled up on the edges of the balcony. The wind was ferocious, slamming into the windows. I woke up to the screaming winds, eagerly waiting to a new day even if the scene outside proved other than that. Nobody could have been more excited than me. This would be my first time skiing, having the fun of a lifetime, forgetting about unfinished projects and disastrous test scores. Life could only get better today, what could go wrong? The answer was everything.
As in every case I was optimistic; things would turn out to be catastrophic. Wretchedly, this issues still happens today; it is as though my mind was intricately programmed to detect wicked fortune and that would be by being optimistic. On the slopes of Japan, six years ago, this confirmed my assumption of these phenomena yet again,
On this freezing day, everything went downhill from the first step on the snow packed hill. From this delightful trudge, the caked surface filled me with joy. Nothing was more remarkable than this discovery since I received a video game console. As like any nine year ol...
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... try proved futile. The most memorable moment was skiing down the hill and crashing into an invincible rock. The cursed rock sent me hurling in the air with no control over my own myself. I miraculously tumbled into the caked surface again, but somehow the impact caused my whole body to smash into it instead of my legs being wedged like before.
As I ended the trip where everything was calamitous, I had learnt scores of depressing facts about skiing. The reality was skiing was a bore and the snow was hazardous. Lastly I knew that I would be no skier. It was strenuous to swallow, but I comprehended that from these errors. I could only be a professional skier by playing as a virtual person of myself in a videogame. From this dismal conclusion, it summed up the vacation that never was: gloomy with a sense of being a failure at everything I strived for.
He fig-ured that the normal half hour walk home might take as long as two hours in snow this deep. And then there was the wind and the cold to contend with. The wind was blowing across the river and up over the embankment making the snow it carried colder and wetter than the snow blanketing the ground. He would have to use every skill he’d learned, living in these hills, to complete the journey without getting lost, freezing to death, or at the very least ending up with a severe case of frostbite be-fore he made it back to Ruby.
Gina Meyers and Jill McDonough both illustrate a lack of control within the poems “Hold it Down” and “Accident, Mass. Ave.”. “Hold it Down” by Gina Meyers describes a long narrative of the problem, a lack of control, impossibilities and frustration in everyday life, while “Accident, Mass. Ave.” presents a narrative of a problem, a moment of loss of control, aggression and frustration in a single moment that happen on a specific day. Similarly the poems are long and include long enjambed lines disturbed by few short and small lines. Contrasting the poems are ordered and structured very differently.
A few winters ago, some friends invited my family and me to go snow skiing at Paoli Peaks, Indiana. I did not know how to snow ski, and I leaped at the thought of trying this new sport. On the first morning we entered the pro shop to rent all the gear and make decisions about whether or not to take lessons or go it alone. We decided to be adventurous and go it alone—no lessons. Kent and Celeste, the friends who invited us, knew how to ski and snowboard. He assured us that he could show us the basics, and we would be on our way down the slopes. All of us, after a few minutes learning how to wedge our skis started down the family trail. Although the family trail had smaller hills and appeared safe, to me it seemed way
“Throughout many years I have gained skill sets that got me to where I am today” Rob has looked upon his life as learning process. Rob explained that in his earlier years, during his quest for a sense of adventure and meaning in his life, he worked as a ski instructor in Park City, Utah. Rob’s day consisted of running the slopes as many times as he could while training people of all ages how to ski. At one point Rob set the world record for the downhill ski slalom during the time. However, the day after day tasks of skiing had gotten repetitive for Rob, as he began to lose insight on what he wanted to accomplish in life, and Rob knew he could not be a ski instructor forever. The countless days he had been sleeping in his car he started to think more and more about how Rob wanted to change his life. One day as he was looking upon the Wasatch Mountain Range contemplating life, Rob thought to himself “It’s time, It’s time to make a difference in my life, for better or for worse I need to change.” Rob felt like his adventure was just beginning with the many different challenges on the horizon that were about to face
The freezing wind had chilled my hand to the bone. Even as I walked into my cabin, I shivered as if there was an invisible man shaking me. My ears, fingers, toes, and noes had turned into a pale purple, only starting to change color once I had made a fire and bundled myself in blankets like ancient Egyptians would do to their deceased Pharaohs. The once powdered snow on my head had solidified into a thin layer of ice. I changed out of the soaking wet clothes I was wearing and put on new dry ones. With each layer I became more excited to go out and start snowboarding. I headed for the lift with my board and my hand. Each step was a struggle with the thick suit of snow gear I was armored in.
I’ve done some scary things before and I always had the courage and motivation to do it, but this time, my courage abandoned me and just disappeared as if it was never there. It was a cool and chilly day, but the sun was shining hard at my favorite ski resort in Lake Tahoe in December. Crisp, white snow was delicately falling from the sky and it covered the ground like a blanket. But the luminous sun was melting the snow, making it wet and slippery. The trees on the side were towering but slender with dark, brown trunks and bright green leaves. I was wearing a cumbersome jacket and a helmet and I was starting to sweat a lot in the heat. There were tons of people in thick jackets carrying skis, poles, and snowboards milling around. I was in a lengthy line of people, all waiting to go on a ski lift. The lift led to a monstrously huge hill that I was about to ski on.
I glided downhill on my blue and white skis as the cold mountain air filled my lungs. I repeated the drill, and my success sparked some self-confidence. However, my dad fell on his butt and proceeded to blame his equipment for the incident. Despite his failure, my dad progressed with the rest of the group to a longer, steeper slope. In order to ascend this long slope, we hopped on a black conveyor belt which took us to the top.
A blast of adrenaline charges throughout my body as I experience the initial drop. My body's weight shifts mechanically, cutting the snow in a practiced rhythm. The trail curves abruptly and I advance toward a shaded region of the mountain. Suddenly, my legs chatter violently, scraping against the concealed ice patches that pepper the trail. After overcompensating from a nearly disastrous slip, balance fails and my knees buckle helplessly. In a storm of powder snow and ski equipment, body parts collide with nature. My left hand plows forcefully into ice, cracking painfully at the wrist. For an eternity of 30 seconds, my body somersaults downward, moguls of ice toy with my head and further agonize my broken wrist. Ultimately veering into underbrush and pine trees, my cheeks burn, my broken wrist surging with pain. Standing up confused, I attempt climbing the mountain but lose another 20 feet to the force of gravity.
Brilliant white snow rushes under my skis making a soft crunching sound. The wind blows through my dirty blond hair, carelessly tangling it. The smell of pine and fresh snow permeate the sharp frozen air. Beams of sunlight cascade over the powdery slopes, creating a whimsical sparkle. I hurl down the mountain. My mind lost in the moment, taking in every ounce of scenery. What I failed to notice was the large patch of ice ahead, masquerading as harmless snow. I expeditiously continued on my path toward the hidden ice. From an outsider's point of view, I imagine I would have looked much like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel after my skis finally reached the ice.
One of the most defining elements of my life is my passion for freeride skiing. This extreme sport frees my mind, and it gives me the privilege to make the most of whatever terrains gets to my way. I was raised in the shadows of the Italian Alps, so skiing was as natural as walking or breathing to me. Freeride skiing is skiing off piste on untouched, rough terrain without any goals or rules. Freeride skiers follow a path that is not delimited by others, but determined by the skiers themselves. It was not until I discovered freeride skiing that I began to understand what personally moves me and makes me who I am. Although I am not reckless or fearless, I love to challenge my limits, and I am not afraid to push myself physically or mentally.
Disappointment, disbelief and fear filled my mind as I lye on my side, sandwiched between the cold, soft dirt and the hot, slick metal of the car. The weight of the car pressed down on the lower half of my body with monster force. It did not hurt, my body was numb. All I could feel was the car hood's mass stamping my body father and farther into the ground. My lungs felt pinched shut and air would neither enter nor escape them. My mind was buzzing. What had just happened? In the distance, on that cursed road, I saw cars driving by completely unaware of what happened, how I felt. I tried to yell but my voice was unheard. All I could do was wait. Wait for someone to help me or wait to die.
However, when I gaze upon the gleamy white snow crystals covering the Sierras, there is only one activity that comes to mind, snowboarding. It's one of the big things I’m good at. Feeling the snow-filled wind across my face, while skidding and gliding with swiftness across the white plains, my adrenaline sparks to unreachable heights. The pain I experience when I wipe out in the snow is unbearably, but at the same time it's almost like a metaphor for life. Whenever you fall, no matter how hard the fall, you have to pick yourself back up. This makes me both physically and mentally
I remembered watching a professional skier on television. He reached top speeds of about 25 miles an hour and I told my dad that I was interested in skiing. Our family relatives decided that we were going to do for winter break and we decided to take a trip to Utah. It was around a 5 hour drive and we finally arrived at a city called, “Brian Head.” My dad learned that there was a nearby ski resort and all of my cousins wants to go skiing. Our parents took us to the ski resort and decided to put us all in ski school. I thought that it would be easy because the professional skier made it look easy. My arrogance was an obstruction to my skiing experience because I thought that I didn’t need the instructor’s help. I continually
An old Norwegian saying states that “there is no such things as bad weather, only bad clothing.” The saying may be old, but its value is without a doubt contemporary, encompassing the Norwegians’ embrace of nature and the effect of the weather on their culture. This Norwegian culture, from clothing to food, to leisure activity to art, has always been greatly influenced by the climatic conditions, and continues to be so today. It is a society deeply rooted in traditions and mutually linked to its environment, which allows for much outdoor activity, even though the country finds itself at the fringes of the north. Sports and leisure Norway ’s sport culture can be summarized best by looking at the country’s results at the Winter Olympics: only the former Soviet Union can boast to having won more Olympic medals, even though the population of Norway barely exceed 4.5 million inhabitants. Due to the northern geographic location of the country, and the snowy conditions in the altitudes surrounding Lillehammer, skiing has evolved from a vital method for displacement to becoming a mass sport. Initially, as a 4000 year old cave drawing at Rodøy in Nordland shows (38 Su Dale), skis appeared out of the historical necessity; people had to be able to move, for hunting and gathering purposes, during the winter months in a sparsely populated land. Since then, cross-country skiing has evolved and has become the most popular sport in a country in which “self-respect and pride is sporting achievements is high” (42 Su Dale). Clearly, part of its popularity rises from the accessibility of skiing as a leisurely activity; there are more than 190,000 miles (Ministry of Foreign Affairs) of marked trails in the country, and snowfall in Lillehammer guaran...
My eyes were deteriorating fast since I started using Tumblr. Driving to school past the park I came to terms it was autumn my favourite season: Trees almost naked with every branch bare, hearing the sound of rustling when people stomping through a crowd of crunchy leaves, though when the wind breathes it accelerates a leafy tornado swirling in a circular motion, smelling a fresh batch of rain from minutes ago and seeing the glistening as the biggest star made I admired. I use to walk to school every morning before my mum left us. Dropping Kaylee off at school I took a right turn where Jessica insisted to meet by the cascade fountain. I parked and by squinting my eyes I could already see she was dressed impressively kooky today. A jacket duplicating the print of a burgundy floral couch, vintage purple satin blouse with J’s scattered all over in different colours, an eagle bolo tie, the stripy snazzy saffron skirt, suede slip on shoes and to compliment her rouge knitting glasses someone had gifted. She ran to me.