Use the Mountain
By Jamie Lewis
I can feel the cold air sweeping across my cheeks. Chills roll down my spine. Bindings snap into place. My eyes focus on the mountain trail ahead of me.
My board slowly begins to slide. My mind slowly begins to clear.
I can feel the music begin to fill my head. I can feel my heart beginning to pound. I can feel my breathing begin to heighten. I can feel the snow beneath my board, the small divots, the patches of ice.
My body takes over. It reacts before my mind. There’s no time to think; if you do, a fall is inevitable.
To slow down, you need to carve. As my mom would say, “Use the mountain”. I bend my knees. Lift my toes. Dig my heels into the snow. Lean into the turn. Again. I bend my knees. Lift my heels. Dig my toes into the snow. Lean into the turn.
I can hear the snow scraping. I can hear the wind howling. I can hear 2010s music blasting. The music coursing through my body, allowing my mind to focus only on the lyrics and nothing else.
The board shifts, along with my entire body. I’m in complete control. Dodging obstacles. Avoiding ice patches. Watching the trees become a blur. Watching the people become a blur.
The feeling of freedom passes over me. I feel at peace. This is the only place I want to be.
The cold disappears. My thoughts disappear. All I’m left with is my board and the path set before me. Alone.
Why does something so dangerous feel so peaceful?
There is something about flying down the mountain, breathing in the icy air that makes me want to go faster. Makes me feel alive. Faster. One mistake can lead to a complete disaster, but that’s what makes it all the more thrilling. Faster.
In this moment, my body is in control. Faster.
*
The edge of my board catches. My body tries to correct the error. It’s too late. I lose control.
My tailbone slams into the ground. My head snaps back into the icy mountain, instantly leaving my entire body paralyzed.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The world around me goes quiet, leaving me with a loud ringing in my ears. I stare through my goggles up into the sky, the sea of nothing but blue. I wait for my brain to register the pain.
Falling is inevitable, no matter how experienced you are. It’s what makes this sport such a risk. Run after run, it’s only a matter of time before you are left with your body spread across the mountain.
I can feel the snow melting down my neck. I can feel the coldness running slowly down my back.
I lay there for a couple of seconds, my mind processing, assessing, and making sure that nothing is broken. I wiggle my fingers, my toes. Thankfully, I’m left with only a couple of aching body parts and the promise of bruises.
Around me, the mountain keeps moving. I hear the scraping of people’s boards drive past. I hear laughter float through the air from someone up on the chairlift. No one stops.
But what would’ve happened if I hit the ground the wrong way? Are the short moments of freedom really worth the risk of permanent injury?
A feeling in the back of my head begins to creep in. It reminds me of everything that could go wrong, how quickly control can disappear.
One wrong move could change everything. Someday, I might fall and not be able to get back up.
Thoughts pile into my mind, becoming a swarm of what-ifs. I realize I’ve been here before, the feeling of uncertainty, the feeling of being scared to lose control again, of being scared to trust myself.
Being in control is not about stopping the inevitable fall; it’s about what happens next. I can’t decide when or if a fall is going to happen; that’s the mountain’s decision, but it is my
decision whether I stay down. It is my actions that will be the deciding factor.
I stare up at the sea of blue for a little while longer, letting the cold sink in, letting my thoughts settle.
I can do this. I can be in control. I can trust myself. I just need to get out of my head.
*
My mind takes me back to when I was 5 years old. All bundled up at the top of the mountain in my pink snow jacket and pants. My mom’s old helmet weighs heavily on my head. My sister’s old red goggles tint the white mountain baby pink. I look down and see my hand-me-down pink princess board staring back up at me.
The mountain feels enormous. Endless. The trail looks steep. Terrifying.
No one asks me if I’m ready. No one stays back to help me. They just go.
I watch as my brother, sister, and dad take off down the mountain. I watch as they leave me stranded.
Alone.
The wind passes through my gloves, making my fingers twitch. My legs feel stiff and awkward, weighed down by gear that feels heavier than my body. I can feel my chest begin to tighten as I look out and see how far up I am. Panic starts to set in.
There is no time to sit there upset. There is no time to sit there and cry. It is time to prove to myself that I can do this. I can learn control. I can trust myself. I just needed to get out of my head and let myself react.
I remember what they told me, what I’ve learned. My board slowly begins to slide. My body slowly takes over. My mind slowly begins to clear.
I’m doing it. I can feel the snow beneath my board, the small divots. I can hear the howling of the wind. I can hear the mountain below me moving.
The feeling of freedom begins to creep in.
The edge of my board catches. There is no one there to catch me but the snowy mountain.
My face slams into the ground. The feeling of freedom instantly turns cold. I lay there frozen in time.
I feel the coldness seeping into my gloves. I feel the cold seeping through my jacket, through my snow pants.
I pick my head up. I look around, and it’s just me. I’m alone. I’m cold. I’m scared.
A gust of wind comes, chilling the melted snow on my cheeks and nose, turning them as red as a tomato.
I can’t do this by myself. I’m not ready.
I wait for someone to come, but no one ever does. My tiny body lies there as I watch people pass me.
I have no choice.
*
I brush the snow off my pants, my jacket, and my helmet. I stand, and somewhere inside of me, the five-year-old with the pink princess board stands too.
The mountain is still the same, but, for some reason, I don’t think I am.
The fear of losing control is still there, but it’s quieter now, drowned out by the sounds of music blasting.
Maybe it isn’t just the speed, but the fact that I always get back up.
