Skiing is counterintuitive. It defies common sense in every which way.
You get up in the wee hours of the morning. You swaddle into so many layers of clothes that you can barely scratch your elbow. You lug a plethora of equipment - skis, poles, gloves, ski-mask - to the base. The anti-walking things on your feet called ski-boots are are leaning into your shins as you grunt up the slope. You time your hop to get into a ski-lift that won’t even stop for you. The cold cuts to the bones as the precariously dangling chair whizzes into the mist. You somehow tumble out when you are supposed to.
You are on the top of the slope. Fresh powder stretches all the way to the bottom, guarded by the greenest of mountains. Adrenalin trickles into your bloodstream. You sense a delicious tingle in the toes. The sun peeps out.
Suddenly everything makes sense.
