Half past dawn, skis over the shoulder, cold, brisk air hits my face as I walk out the door at Winter Park, Colorado. Klunk, klunk, klunk, a vibration goes through my entire body every time I take a step. As I look around, I notice the stillness of the air, the birds chirping through the sky, and the orange, yellow, and red sun peaking over the mountain. 

I start to ascend, higher and higher, colder and colder, as I approach the top, I see squirrels scamper across, the owls hooting as they warn each other about us. The crunch of the snow — like stepping on autumn leaves — after each turn I take. 

“Race you,” I say to my dad, knowing I can beat him. I take to the trees, swerving back and forth, looking ahead, trying not to hit a tree on the way down, jumping occasionally avoiding the rocks and roots. I come out of the tunnel of trees into a bowl-shaped run, filled with fresh powder from the night before. I glide over the snow, jetting back and forth, trying not to fall, and with a slight burning in my lungs, I see him come down as I wait for him to catch up. We both head down together, the wind howling in our faces, trying to keep us from escaping its grasp. 

I look around, and I see the same birds that welcomed us, silently going back to their nests, getting ready to end the day. The owls hoot, telling each other it is safe to come out again, as we sit on the balcony, watching the sunset over the mountain range.