Reaching the Summit

Dare to Soar – Henry Zhang

Randi Ogan

The wind whipped at my face as I sped down the mountain, trying my best to keep up with Caty. Nate and I had far less experience skiing than Caty, seeing that she grew up in Colorado and had a condo in Breckenridge, and we resided in Raleigh, North Carolina. If we were lucky, Raleigh got one or two inches of snow a year. I was in the ninth grade, and this was the first ski trip we had taken in several years due to COVID-19; therefore, I hadn’t skied in several years and still felt uneasy on the mountain. I arrived last at the bottom of the slope; I slid to a stop and quickly removed my goggles from my face. “I think we should get one or two more runs in and then go back to the condo for a bit,” I suggested, mumbling due to the numbness of my lips. “I can’t stand the cold.”

Although I loved skiing, the cold felt unbearable; I could hardly feel my toes, partially because of the frigid air and partially because of the tightness of my ski boots, cutting off the circulation from my feet. My hand warmers lost most of their heat, and my thumbs, secluded from the rest of my fingers, cozy in their black mittens, stiffened. The pink mask I wore, guarding my face against the cold, had become damp from my heavy breathing as I struggled down the mountain. The damp fabric made my face even colder, spreading a numbing sensation across my mouth and nose. Miserable and tired, I craved an escape from the elements. 

“Do you really want to head all the way back to the condo?” Caty asked. Reaching the condo meant we had to ski down to the overcrowded Colorado Chair, wait in line for what felt like hours on end, and then ski down to the Rocky Mountain Super Chair. Once we finished skiing, we took off our skis and walked down the icy sidewalk to the hotel for half a mile in our stiff, rigid ski boots, sweating in our snow gear all the while. “I know somewhere else we can go,” Caty told us. “There’s a cabin in the woods on Peak Eight, and we can ski down  to the Independence Chair from here.” 

Oh crap. I hated this idea for one main reason: Peak Eight terrified me. Moguls (which I had only just learned to ski through without tumbling halfway down the mountain) covered the cliff from top to bottom. Narrow paths with sharp and unexpected curves lined the woods along the side of the mountain. Turning amongst the thick trees was nearly impossible, so the only way through them was at lightning speed. In addition to the deadly course, the prospect of going to a mysterious cabin in the woods also petrified me. I had seen plenty of horror movies and knew that you never go to the secluded house in the woods. An ax murderer, werewolf, or, worst of all, a snowboarder definitely lurked inside the shack, waiting for its next victim. I stood in horror as, one by one, my brother and my cousins agreed to the plan and began following Caty to the Independence Chair. Filled with dread, I resentfully followed them.

The entire rise up the mountain, I sat shaking in the chairlift, not only because of the intense cold but also because of my anxiety. When the time came, we lifted the bar and exited the chair lift; while doing so, my stomach tied in knots. We skied, led by Caty, down to the first trail. A sign reading Wirepatch next to a menacing black diamond marked the steep drop-off. Caty and her sisters confidently dropped off the cliff, gracefully gliding off of it as though it were a bunny slope. Nate plummeted after them, not quite as majestically, but with both skis intact. I stood tentatively at the top of the mountain; my skis hung over the cliff’s edge due to its steepness. Taking a deep, calming breath, I braced myself as I slipped down the mountain and began the run.

 I immediately side-slipped, my skis perpendicular to the hill as I approached my first bump. At the top of the hump, I tried remembering what my ski instructor had taught me. Stab the top of the mound, ski around it, and repeat. Shaking, I reached out with my pole, struck the middle of the mogul, and began sliding around it. The steepness of the turn made me speed up immensely, and I nearly toppled over in my panicked attempt of slowing down. As I continued with the moguls, I gained confidence slowly. I approached each bump with more speed and assurance. With half of the mountain remaining, I tackled the moguls without stopping for a break between each one. Although I arrived last at the base of the run, I stayed upright the entire time, a feat of which I was proud of. I joined my cousins at the bottom of the hill next to a line of trees, and my high from conquering the moguls quickly vanished as I reminded myself of the dangerous trek through the woods to the cabin.

Yet again, we followed Caty’s lead as she slid underneath the chairlift across the mountain, reaching the forest. Snow caked the bulky trees, forming clumps on the green pine needles. Many tracks from skis entered along the line of trees visible from the slope; however, I saw few to no tracks from snowboarders entering the woods. Snowboarders had no peripheral vision due to the angle of their boards, leaving them permanently blind to half the mountain. Therefore, they often knocked into people and, no doubt, trees. Even if cannibals and maniacs roamed the woodland, at least the forest provided a safe haven from snowboarders. I dove into the woods, entering last after Caty, all of my cousins, and Nate. The twists and turns of the path came very abruptly, and I had no room for slowing down. With each sharp and unexpected curve of the course, my anxiety rose at the idea of slamming into a tree or falling and sinking into the piles of powder. As soon as I became accustomed to the trail’s rhythm, Caty took us off of it, creating gaping six-inch tracks in the untouched snow. Now, relying on my not-so-great reflexes for avoiding the trees, my heart rate advanced, beating like a drum in my chest. I gained speed, barely keeping up with the group, but I had difficulties controlling my sudden movements and dodging the trees. I initially felt relieved when I saw Caty skid to a halt in front of the building, and then the familiar feeling of dread returned when I thought of what skulked inside. 

From the outside, the hut looked like a typical slaughterhouse; chimes hung from a post on the cabin, and only a true psychopath would have put those there. The structure stood roughly seven feet tall and consisted of bare tree logs approximately five inches in diameter. Spray foam lay between the logs, insulating the cabin while simultaneously holding it together. Using my ski poles, I prodded the ends of my skis, released my boots, and stuck my poles upright in the snow. When I stepped closer, I saw the white door, covered in various stickers and scribbled all over. On closer inspection, looking past the graffiti and stickers, I saw spray painted on the door: “GNARNIA SHACK” as well as “GNARNIA SHACK RULES.” The rules written beneath included things such as “don’t act like a Jerry” (an amateur skier), “throw away your trash,” and “close the door behind you.” Huh, I thought. Maybe this wasn’t an uncivilized hideout for maniacs. Two windows lay between the logs, one on the front of the lodge, right of the door, and another on the wall to the left. The windows looked like one-way glass, mirrored on the outside and transparent on the inside. Various brightly colored stickers covered the windows and the door, some advertising individual camps, businesses, and ski lodges. Other stickers had brightly colored illustrations or cartoons from various TV shows and vines. Pushing my goggles to my helmet, I stepped towards the entrance. Nate swung open the door, and I followed him inside. As I entered, I immediately felt warm; I unzipped my heavy ski jacket and tied it around my waist. Several benches lined the walls’ interior, all made from recycled snowboards (yet again covered in stickers). A wooden rack hung between the door and the window; I unbuckled my helmet and hung it, feeling the pressure on my temples vanish.

A Colorado license plate, a poster from the movie Interstellar, and many handmade art pieces ranging from simple sketches of the mountain to intricate drawings of scorpions covered the walls. The severed head of a unicorn pinata hung on a wooden post in the center of the cabin. The ends of the frayed paper looked browned and, in some places, blackened, appearing somewhat burnt. A circular mirror hung in the top corner of the room next to the door, the type often used for catching shoplifters in gas stations, which seemed ironic as someone had probably stolen it. Also likely stolen, several traffic signs decorated the walls, such as a neon yellow crossing sign. A bulletin board hung on the wall opposite the door, with odd drawings and phrases scribbled across. Most notable included an illustration of Morty’s head from the show Rick and Morty, which took up roughly ¼ of the board drawn in thick black Sharpie; scrawled in a chunky graffiti-styled font the phrase “Gnarnia”; and written boldly across the top “Dicks out for Harambe!” Many people had propped their ski passes on the corkboard’s top rim. Grass composed the floor; it shined bright green as the cabin shielded it from the snow flying wildly outside. Our boots had tracked in icy clumps of snow, forming a gray slush in the grass. After thoroughly examining the cabin’s interior, taking in every scribble, sticker, and mismatched wall decoration, I flopped down on one of the recycled snowboards. Good, I thought to myself—one less snowboarder roaming the mountain. I unbuckled my snow boots, releasing the pressure from my feet and letting out an audible sigh of relief. 

As we sat huddled in the shack, I suddenly wondered how on earth someone built this place. I thought about the logistics of how someone made a hand-crafted cabin in the middle of the woods halfway up a mountain. The craftsman likely constructed the cabin during the summer without the presence of snow, but that meant that no one operated the chairlifts; therefore, someone hiked up the mountain on foot, a tiresome task which no doubt took hours, and then continued physically laboring afterward. The logs comprising the walls appeared fresh from the mountain; no one purchased these at any Ace Hardware. Someone strenuously chopped and arranged each tree trunk one on top of the other, forming the cabin walls. Even the seats and the coat racks looked handcrafted from worn-out skis and snowboards and then carried for miles up the rocky mountain.

Not only was there love, labor, and passion poured into this cabin by its creator, but also by each visitor. Each person who arrived at the cabin had braved the bitter cold, the moguls, the lines at the chairlifts, and the impossible path through the forest. People left a part of themselves at the cabin, adding to its history while tying them to it permanently. The interior was a mismatched museum of personal belongings, each one with a story. Reaching the lodge felt like an accomplishment and a reward for hard work and bravery. It made me feel special knowing about this place; I successfully skied down a black diamond and through the winding path between the trees. I had not thought it possible of myself, which only added to my feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction once I reached my destination. I challenged myself, my limits, and my bravery but reaped the rewards by experiencing the cabin. I, too, left a part of myself at this cabin. At the end of my week in Colorado, I placed my ski pass among the others on the bulletin board and joined the community of people who faced the mountain and knew of this remarkable place.