Personal Narrative: My First Ski Jump

Trepidation filled my head. Despite the negative 10 degree weather, sweat pooled in my gloves and rolled down my face. Thoughts raced through my mind; a wrong execution could mean death. 11 years of ski lessons had cultivated to this one moment. My life was on the line, yet a wave of excitement shook me. I took a look down at the jump that had come to dominate Joe’s backyard, replacing his childhood swing set. The jump was sizable, but not gargantuan. From previous hits I noticed its “poppy” lip - skier talk for a jump that sends you up rather than out - which is ideal for the trick I was about to attempt: a backflip.
Ever since I was two, skiing consumed most weekends during the winter. Since my grandmother bought a house in West Dover, VT nearly 50 years ago, it has been a family ritual to migrate to Vermont every weekend. The whole Steinberg clan - cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents - cram into a three bedroom - turned five - cabin in the woods. The cabin was only meant to house four, yet now houses 12.
First, Joe got the keys to his dad’s F-150 , which was loaded with snow tires and a snow plow. Joe conglomerated the snow into one massive, 20 foot pile, far bigger than ever before. The in-run was as big as a two story house. Looking up to the in-run, the top of the pile glistened with the orange rays from the sun creeping under the mass of snow. After the in-run was finished, we took out the shovels and built another snow pile, which was a few inches taller than my five foot stature. The four of us spent nearly an hour sculpting the jump and grooming the in-run to perfection. Lastly, we built the landing by piling another mass of snow nearly 10 feet away from the jump. Before heading in for hot chocolate and dinner, we froze the jump so that it would harden overnight. We finished at 9 o’clock, so it was pitch black; I had no idea what the jump looked