Ducking Under Yellow Tape and Other Adventures on Skis
  Amy Kilbridge

My history of skiing began with
cold, week-long excursions.
The highlight for me was a break for hot chocolate
which still couldn't erase
my numb toes
or the comments of
the dictator- like Austrian instructor
who asked me why I couldn't ski
as well as my little sister.

According to my Uncle Dick
we had to be on the lift
as soon as it started.
Adhering to family tradition
there was no staying in bed
watching cartoons
like other kids.

But when my sister and I spent our dinner money on a sled
or just used cafeteria trays for
late night runs down the mountain it was better than Bugs Bunny.

Helicopter skiing provided the best beer and burger
I ever tasted once we finally reached
the bottom, knowing we hadn't
been buried by an avalanche.

In college I followed a high school crush
under the yellow rope
through the trees and powder
to experience the gut wrenching exhilaration
which would provide bragging rights
for years to come.

There are times when I feel
I've had enough of the sport.
It's been thirty seven years.
Haven't I proved myself?
But skiing is like a religion in my family
and I'm still a believer.

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