We were up and jumping at 7:00, no later, because the first chair departed precisely at eight. In the rush that ensued, I barely had a moment to reflect that, as one of the ranks of the chronically sleep-deprived, I would have been happy to swap our premium spots in line for another half an hour beneath the covers. But it was Will’s condo, Will’s rules, and he had the idea that we should snag that first chair up the mountain. I suppose he was looking out for the best interests of all, though I couldn’t help narrowing my groggy eyes at him as we were swept out the door.

Cars stocked, last and almost-forgotten mittens grabbed, we jammed ourselves between wayward skis and into our seats. My brother bore the burden of the bag of snacks, and his elbow stuck my side as he reached in, just making certain we had everything of course. It was enough, with my thin nerves. I pushed him back and then rolled the other way. My shoulder pressed the back of the seat and I buried my face in rough fabric for the remainder of the short ride.

Predictably, we didn’t claim first chair. The line was well-established and swelling by the time we bought our tickets and struggled into our skis and helmets. With the snow still coming down, we had brought the goggles too. Smothering in my gear, I felt bulky and awkward. As we loaded onto the lift, I had a sudden, pinching awareness of an itch developing on one shoulder blade, covered by about five layers of fabric.

I was in my signature spot on the left edge of the chair, going up with Will and Mack. That was, at least, something to be grateful for. The two of them discussed our route in the whimsical language of the ski-savvy, throwing off names of trails like Blue Heaven and Skye-Lark. It wasn’t my mountain, so I was free to twist around and take in the neighboring peaks, a full horizon of them, fading into a softer and softer blue as they fell farther from us. I tugged my scarf up against the wind and began to think that I wanted to sail down something called Skye-Lark. Although Blue Heaven sounded alright as well.

As it turns out, the lift ride only took us to one of the lesser peaks, and the true top was still a thousand feet above us in the frigid air. My dad explained to us that, on these larger mountains, planning our path would be much more like navigating a subway route. A lift could move you laterally, as well as farther up the slope, and many of the tracks down could do the same. From this point, there were six or so trails that we could follow to the base, but these would pour out near two or three lifts, which would then bring us to the origins of other trails farther across the mountain. I shifted my feet, crossing and uncrossing my skis. It all began to seem like a massive game of chutes and ladders to me, and I was glad when Will handed out maps to stuff in our pockets. The lift on our mountain at home took you up. Any one of the trails took you down, and that was all.

Gathered as we were, Will quickly briefed us on the route before we pushed off with the long, skating strokes that would slide us across the level ground and onto the first powdered yards of the grade. In truth, though, while my thighs levered strongly beneath all the layers of clothing, my feet did not share in this easy confidence. I didn’t like to acknowledge or admit this clenching in my ankles, the way the icy air thinned in my throat at the beginning of each run. There was always a point where I could lean into the speed and trust it to lead me to the bottom. And yet, each time I tipped too far one way or the other, each time my ski jammed and caught against the rough ground, the tension stabbed back at me again. I could never completely forget just how aloof the snow was to the tenderness of my limbs.

This was how, once I pushed off into my descent, the throbbing wind lifted all else but my fear. I could no longer feel the rubbing of wool, Velcro, plastic against my skin. I was no longer aware of the cold. Droopy lethargy was sheared away, layer by layer, until my eyes sprang about the slope, awake, awake, awake. I followed Mack and my brother faithfully, cutting curves from my path to drive myself between them more directly. I did not want to be lost behind. With a tempered sort of exhilaration, I passed them, passed my dad and Will, drifted into a pack of bright red and yellow jackets that belonged to strangers. The snow was sleek and flat, just the kind I loved and hated the most.

I didn’t mean to race. That was how I often lost control, swerving past my brother when he took the lead, or blocking his way when he was at my back. Not today; too big of a mountain, too many people, too much speed. We would be lucky to avoid a collision, fooling that way. I pulled back, aimed for the side of the trail and leaned into the slope to bring myself to a stop. We were all supposed to know the route, but it is always safer just to stay together.

This sort of pause always brought my mind back to my legs, and the way the muscles quaked and bunched. My toes were clenched in my boots. I turned to look up the mountain, didn’t see the telltale brown, red, red, blue of their jackets. When I looked back down the snow was floating.

A benevolent wind had lifted it, formed it into a quick, flowing torrent that curled along the trail in undulating rivulets. My feet scuffled forward, and, with the sense that the moment was already passing, I gave myself to that swirling slipstream and dashed among its flakes until it threw me out, just as easily as the silver waves of a river would wash me onto shore.