The Last Day Of Skiing

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As thin air encloses me as I inaugurate the last day of skiing at Breckenridge, Colorado. Three days of skiing cease rather painlessly; I stumble oftenly but an evening on the couch next to a crackling wood fire soothes my minor aches. Closing times nudges on the final day of our weekend trip as I prepare for my ultimate run of the vacation. Fresh off the ski lift, I glide towards the junction of the trials unoccupied skilled face of the mountain. I detach my boots from my ski’s and rest them on my shoulder, climbing up the rim of the mountain while the wind sways me back and forth, reaching the top, clicking my skis back on. After a moment of deliberating, I fearlessly select a narrow path so steep that the only way can be seen from my viewpoint.
All alone, I glance downhill and advance towards a dangerous region on the mountain. Suddenly, my legs chatter violently, as my skis scrape against the frozen patches that disperse the area.
“I already knew that the trail will be empty for quite awhile,” I said.
After overcompensating from the fall. I take my left glove off and inspect what damage has this done to me, the heavy drift blows my glove away from me.
“Noooo, no,” I said.
I stand up and detach my right ski, then scramble the icy slope that flanks the trail in search for my missing glove. Upon returning to stance of my missing glove, I re-enter the steep slope. I put on my glove and slowly slide down the slope putting my ski back on. I suddenly hear rumblings followed
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