Chair Number 24
By J.B. of Brookline, Massachusetts
Scooped off my feet into the biting, winter air, I quickly gripped the bare metal bars to secure myself. As I reclined against the stiff backing of the chair, I quickly noticed a rusted, snow-dusted plate above me. Four loose nails adorned the corners, and old, white paint was peeling from its crusty surface. However, amidst the chaotic mess that was the small metallic sheet rose two perfectly bolded numbers. 24. I was confused at how two perfectly shaped numbers arose from the clutter around it. I quickly dismissed this notion and moved on to scraping the excess snow from the tops of my skis. The snow gently took up residence in the many nooks and crannies of my wrinkled jacket and pants and mixed with the warm perspiration emanating from my pores. The unbalanced chair rhythmically swung me past the increasingly snow-capped trees as the base of the mountain gradually shrunk behind me. The frequent gusts, which propelled into my half-exposed face, caused tears to form under my eyes, and the sweet, comfortable scent from the waffles in the lodge faded into a mix of wet mountain air.
I watched the multitude of skiers and snowboarders pass under me – from the timid young children struggling to stay upright, to the confident, more experienced adults who strived to pass other skiers or snowboarders to establish their brief dominance over each other on the mountain. With each mountain rider who whizzed pass, I anxiously waited for the person who would go just a little bit too fast, catch a loose rock or branch and wipe out, creating entertainment for the spectators above, while sacrificing his own pride.
Finally my thirst for entertainment was quenched when an overzealous skier dressed in neon green and orange attire attempted a jump by the side of the trail. The jump had been formed by the previous night’s snowfall and had covered a previously protruding rock. This unsuspecting skier’s posse of friends has stopped higher up on the trail to watch their friend perform this feat. The neon skier sped up, encouraged by the shouts of his friends. He was doomed from the moment the tips of his skis hit the base of the jump. The new, soft snow had not yet hardened to effectively shield the rock, and he went straight into the jagged edge of the rock. Both skis popped off and rolled uselessly out into the middle of the trail. His poles dragged along behind his flailing body, and he landed far from where he had attempted the jump. His friends had become even more satisfied then had their friend actually completed the jump. They skied down to greet their friend, and their hoots and hollers were still audible long after my chair, chair 24, had passed.
The summit of the mountain neared, and, obeying the numerous signs that warned to “find loose items” and “keep ski tips up,” I put down my goggles and the world turned to a light shade of orange. I slid off the chair onto the ramp and glided down to the center of the summit. I watched my chair skate over to the downward side of the lift as I attached my poles to my gloves. My poles helped me propel to just over the ridge of the tree-speckled trail and into the long descent that I had become well acquainted with on the gradual climb of chair number 24 up the face of the mountain.
