“We’re going to get you down this mountain, I promise,” Chris said grasping my hands tightly. “I am going to get you down.”
I thought of Rugby teams forced into cannibalism in the Andes and tales of extreme survival on Oprah that inevitably ended with toes being lopped off due to frostbite. I thought of being trapped in a canyon, 127 Hours style, and having to saw off a limb to survive. I decided that I could spare my left arm, in a pinch.
“I’m scared,” I said tears streaming down my face, freezing in little droplets to my eyelashes.
“Don’t be. You’re going to be okay,” my beginning ski instructor assured me.
I’d made the horrible mistake of venturing to the top of a mountain for “an adventure.” Now, I was going to die. Snuffed out at only 22. And with so much life left to live! I’d never even tried taking mushrooms in the desert!
To my left, a four year old girl zoomed around me on her skis.
“’Scuse me,” the very small child, who’d only recently learned to speak in complete sentences, chirped as she disappeared through the trees. I shivered in the spray of her snowy wake. I was on the very easiest trail at Steamboat Springs and I was definitely doomed.