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. 

Ahead – Carys Thomas

Sasha Olander

“Sasha! Sasha, listen,” I heard through the thick fog in my head. “Is she always this disrespectful?” I listened as my camp counselor accused me of being an impolite and belligerent kid. I continued walking. I wasn’t aware that I had been walking. I didn’t even know where I walked. I tried responding but no one knew. My words didn’t come out of my mouth. What? I said in my mind. What? I continued repeating in my mind hoping that my counselor eventually heard my response. WHAT??? I finally shouted 45 seconds later in irritation after what seemed like a full year. I looked over as my brother, my camp counselor, and my fellow campers stared at me with confusion and irritation. The counselor reprimanded me while I simultaneously attempted to recover after the daze I went off into. I tried focusing on the words of my counselor but I continued wondering what had happened. 

It took months before figuring out what had happened that day. No one thought twice after the camp incident because everyone assumed that I ignored my counselor out of disrespect. However, at the ripe age of five years old I lacked the eloquence required for describing what I felt in my brain, like static on a TV screen. It felt as if all of my senses blended together, and I had no control over my body or my voice. I didn’t know if I heard or saw or even moved. It felt like an angry ant had taken over my brain, and I struggled while I attempted fighting the ant back. The ant sought out my brain like a zombie. Unfortunately, the ant would the battle for a solid minute before I took back control. After this “daze” happened several more times on family vacations in Europe, my parents realized that I hadn’t been disrespectful; my brain stopped properly functioning in relation to my body. Once I returned from Europe, my parents scheduled an appointment at a specialized doctor’s office that I constantly butchered the pronunciation of: a neurologist.
When I arrived at the doctor, they asked me all sorts of questions about when we noticed my seizures first starting and how many times it had happened since. After the questions, the doctor had me do an intriguing test. At first, I thought I may really enjoy the test because it consisted of a rainbow pinwheel which thrilled me, as a scared five year old. However, when the doctor spun the pinwheel and made me watch it, I realized that I hated that test more than anything. The rapid spinning of the pinwheel and its colors sparked a seizure in the doctor’s office. The doctor told me that he purposely induced a seizure from the pinwheel, but I had trouble wrapping my head around why he wanted me drifting away and entering the loneliest, scariest place in my mind. The pinwheel continued haunting me for years. I dreaded taking the pinwheel test because every time- I had a seizure, and I hated the lack of control that I had over my own brain. The doctor shortly after asked me if I had any head injuries recently. My mom proceeded with telling him how I slipped in my backyard after swimming lessons one day and got diagnosed with a severe concussion. 

At the end of the dreadful appointment, the doctor diagnosed me with petit mal seizures. He told me that this type of seizure is most common in children and while many children outgrow them, many develop other types of seizures in the process. The doctor quickly placed me on a medication that I believed scared the seizures away . The liquid medicine seemed like the most putrid, vile substance I had ever tasted – like dried blood mixed with molasses. When I tried it for the first time, I almost projectile vomited at the taste of moldy grapes combined with sweaty socks. I gagged at the thought of taking it twice a day, every day of my life. I had two options. I either continued having seizures, or I took medication. My parents made that decision, so I started on my medication shortly after. 

I believed that the medicine cured me. Once I started the medication, I thought of being a normal kid doing normal kid things. However, activities and foods were restricted from me as my seizures continued occurring even after the medicine. The seizures continued taking away things that I enjoyed. I couldn’t swim, or play a sport, or drink my favorite drink ever: sweet tea, and most importantly, the doctor prohibited CHOCOLATE. The thought of not indulging in my favorite sweet treat mortified me. I hated my brain and I hated my mind. Why did I have stupid seizures? It felt so unfair. 

My parents tried their best with giving me the most normal childhood despite my adversity. I continued doing my gymnastics lessons and later in the year, I joined the cheer team at my gymnastics gym, but I still had limitations, specifically revolving around swimming. When my seizures had started, I hadn’t finished my swimming lessons, so I didn’t necessarily swim properly. Going underwater imposed a serious risk that I avoided because having a seizure underwater risked my life. I didn’t tell anyone about my seizures because I didn’t want people viewing me differently. I struggled with not telling anyone because when it rarely occurred that I had a seizure in public, no one knew what happened therefore, no one had a way of helping. Fortunately, at this point I finally swallowed pills and I stopped using the liquid medicine. My dosage also increased as my seizures persisted through the medication.

After years of having petit mal seizures, I realized accepting my difference seemed like my only option. I had no way of  “curing” my seizures or fixing myself and becoming “normal” and not taking three different pills a day and skipping out on pool parties. I would either grow out of them or develop other types of seizures and even though it seemed unfortunate and unfair, I had accepted that. I began focusing on the positive blessings in my life instead of wallowing over a condition that I had no control over. At the age of five I quickly learned that every single individual person has something going on in their lives that affects them in the same way that my seizures affected me. 

At age nine, I had another regular annual checkup with my neurologist. Little did I know that turned out as my last time in that pale yellow office with the horrible fluorescent lighting. He asked me the procedure questions before whipping out the object I hated the most: the pinwheel of hell. I watched in fear as he slowly brought the pinwheel by my eyes. I hadn’t had a seizure in months since my last doctor’s appointment when everyone thought I had outgrown my seizures until the pinwheel sent me into a trance. I knew deep down, that pinwheel seemed like one obstacle impossible to overcome. Until I beat the pinwheel, becoming a “normal kid” seemed impossible. 

“Are you ready, Sasha?” I heard from my doctor as he stuck that obnoxious, colorful piece of trash directly in my face. I sighed, awaiting my horrible fate. By this point, I had been at enough doctor’s appointments where I already knew my fate. I had passed every other test and then I’d be so hopeful of finally quitting my medication and outgrowing my seizures. Then, I would enter a different state of mind as soon as the colors started spinning. I had no hope, and no faith. As soon as it started spinning I gave up completely and attempted getting the seizure over with. However, the wheel kept on spinning and spinning, and I remained responsive. Five seconds passed, ten seconds passed, thirty seconds passed, and he removed the pinwheel from my line of vision. “Congratulations Sasha! You have outgrown your seizures.” The doctor said as I stared in disbelief. Those seizures had been a part of me for so long. How did they randomly disappear on a Tuesday afternoon? I tuned out as my doctor conversed with my mom about the next steps and procedures. I heard him tell her to monitor me and keep a close eye on me. I saw her shed a happy tear as I continued sitting, looking unfazed. “Aren’t you happy Sasha? It’s all over.” I felt happy, didn’t I? Being happy didn’t feel like an option. For years I wanted the seizures gone, but at that moment it felt like one of my special yet unfortunate features got stripped from me. Seizures had been a part of me for almost half of my life and I quickly realized that not having them made me feel like one of my most interesting features no longer existed. Life without seizures and medication had been so foreign. I forced a smile as I gave my ecstatic mom a hug. Since the end of my seizures, I have had many more challenges and adversities. But if I can beat the pinwheel, I’m confident I can beat any other obstacle put in my path.