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 | 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. Other than the superfluous amount of Steinberg’s in the house, it is the quintessential Vermont Cabin fully equipped with heat, a kitchen, and a fireplace.
Yes, the cabin is “fully” equipped sans television, internet, and cell service. The ruggedness forces a social integration that not even my parents knew. In my twentyfirst century mind, shouldn’t this alone make me deteste being in Vermont? Since the only other thing to do is read, we actually talk to each other. My sister and I seldom talk to each other in Newton; In fact, I haven’t said a word to her all day today. But, in Vermont something clicks and a bond is formed. Furthermore, this bond transcends the Vermont house and goes onto the slopes; We try to find times to ski with each other, despite our ompetition programs. Not only does Vermont force integration between my sister and me, it also integrates the entire extended family. Whether we are eating at home, or at our favorite restaurant, the 1846 Tavern, we always spend more time talking than eating. We talk about our weeks, our work, and our day of skiing.
I love hearing my loquacious, six year old sister say, “Today I went down my first black diamond! ” To which my grandmother would respond to my dad, “She’s only six, why would you let her do such a thing?! ” I love hearing my 13 year old exclaim, “Today I beat my record time down the racecourse! I love hearing my grandmother braggadociously declare, “I skied five runs today! ” In Vermont, everything that would normally make me look at my phone in boredom enthralls me. During the daytime everyone in my family goes skiing, usually in separate packs. I go to my freestyle competitions program, Isabella goes to her racing program, Zoey and Maddie go to their programs, and the adults do their own thing. I started competing in freestyle skiing when I was 11. I joined because after doing a year of all mountain development team, my friends, Noah, Ben, Joe, and I wanted to do something else, and the terrain park fascinated us.
At the beginning, our friendships were trivial. We hardly knew each other and never had skied together outside of class. But skiing brought us together, and by the end of the first year competing we were having sleepovers and going to each other’s houses every day after skiing to build backyard jumps. Every year following the first big snow storm, we head over to Joe’s house to build a jump. The grueling process of making a kicker – skiing term for jump – in below freezing temperatures with shovels should be a hated one, but we love it.
Usually it takes anywhere from one to two hours to build the jump, but three years ago it took four. 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 like. The next day we went to our competition program at the mountain, but all we really wanted to do was go back to Joe’s house to “hit” the jump. That morning Joe told us, “The jump is massive!
It’s unlike anything we’ve ever made! ” I was ecstatic. In fact, I was so excited that I was impervious to the negative 10 degree weather. I told all of the coaches about the jump and they suggested trying a backflip. That fall I went to a trampoline camp and I had practiced a plurality of backflips into the airbag; I had the experience to properly execute the trick. I didn’t want to try the trick alone so | asked Noah, “I’m going to try a backflip this afternoon. Would you want to try it as well? ” Noah responded, “Of course!
I’ve been waiting to do it for while now. ” “Perfect! ” | exclaimed. Right after our program ended, we headed over to Joe’s backyard to try out the jump. When we got there the jump looked more astonishing than Nick Goepper’s win in the 2013 XGames. As we got out of the car to inspect the jump there was a deafening silence from Ben, Noah, and 1; This jump was breathtakingly scary. If someone skiing at Mt. Snow thought that the jumps in the park were poppy, they would squeal after looking at ours; Mt. Snow builds their jumps flat, without much of a pop.
In comparison, we built ours so that it would shoot you up into the air, making it easier to do inverts. We went to the top of the in-run and began to straight air the jump, getting a feel for its kick. After a couple of straight airs, it was time. Ben chopped up the landing and, with a sense of foreboding, Noah forced me to go first. I slowly trudged up to the top of the in-run trying to come up with an excuse to wimp out, but I could think of none. Aporia filled my head and I wondered if trying the backflip was worth the risk. I thought, “Should I just wait until I’m with a coach at the mountain? The reaction from my friends would be disastrous, but they’d get over it.
This jump meant too much to me to just throw in the towel. In the mind of a freestyle skier, executing a backflip is the paramount trick in the skiing progression; It’s the trick that discerns you from the mediocre skiers. Since I wouldn’t turn back, I clipped in my helmet and lowered my goggles. Looking down from the in-run at the jump mortified me. As I clicked in my bindings, I thought of the video that Joe was taking of me. I couldn’t wait to show my friends and family.
Determination filled my body as I slid down the in-run. I thought to myself, “It’s just like landing into the airbag. You got this. ” I did the rudimentary movements; I put my hands above my head, palms facing backwards, while popping hard off the jump. As my body whirled through the air, 1 tucked my legs in and pulled through, sticking the landing perfectly. My friends cheered and a huge smile sprung across my face. I just landed my first backflip, a huge milestone in my skiing career! Noah landed his as well and we subsequently landed three more before the sun went down.
After the adrenaline wore off, I took a moment to analyze what had just happened. I had just effectively transitioned from novice to pro in the field of freestyle and all-mountain skiing. I thought of all of the monotonous training into the airbag, my first habitual ski instructor, John, and various freestyle ski competitions across the state of Vermont. I thought of my first time placing second in an event at Okemo. I also thought of the future. The opportunities that lay in front of me were immense; I couldn’t wait to explore them.
