The numbness that has imprisoned my ten fingers feels trivial now as we approach the peak of the hill. The extremity of my uneasiness would decrease if there weren’t two elongated pieces of colored metal attached to my feet accompanied by a metal pole in each hand. When we reach the point of dismount I immediately place my poles in the snow and push with the hope that the moving chair does not make contact with my back in a final attempt at vengeance. I lose speed and stop just before the point of depression. As I stand there contemplating weather there are safer ways of reaching level ground, I watch people effortlessly ski down the slopes. Each one of them look as though they were meant to be there; like fish in water or clouds in the sky. I feel like an outsider invading their territory. Letting fate take its course, I bend my knees, put my poles in the snow and push. Since I lack the knowledge of how to slow down, a wave of panic sweeps over me. I rush past people leisurely gliding down the slopes as if I were an angry gust of wind taking no prisoners. A pang of cold hits my face as the snow kicks up behind me like sand in a desert storm. I go faster and faster while clamping the poles tightly in my hands until the ground finally levels off. Thankfully, I slow down until I am able to stop. Fate has spared me.