Skiing has always put me at ease, I loved the feeling of zooming past trees while the cold, Colorado air hit my face. I have been skiing since I was nine years old, and it has since then become an annual trip. The third skiing trip my family took was when I was eleven, in Telluride, Colorado.
On the second day of skiing, my older brother, Neill, and I took the ski lift near the top of the mountain and decided to ski all the way down. Neither of us were excellent skiers so we had stuck to green and blue trails. It was truly breathtaking, skiing down the mountain, the air was fresh, even though the high altitude made breathing a bit harder. And the hundreds of pine trees had dusting of snow on each of them. My brother and I were so caught up in our surroundings we didn’t realize we had taken a wrong turn, leading us down a black diamond trail.
There’s no turning back when skiing, so when my brother and I realized our mistake we had to keep moving one, albeit slowly. At the end of the trail was an incredibly steep hill, we had never encountered something so steep while skiing. My brother went first, making sure to go slow and zig zag back and forth. When he finally got down, it was my turn to go. I tried my best to follow what he had down, going slowly left to right down the
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I started to bawl when my body stopped at the bottom of the hill. My ankle was screaming in pain, I had never felt such agony before. My brother was quick to sit me up, asking what was wrong and what hurt. I told him that I had landed on my ankle funny and it only took him a minute of examine it to realize it was broken. We sat there about five minutes, my older brother comforting me while I continued to cry. Thankfully two adults skiing down the hill stopped to see what was the problem, one of them retrieving my forgotten ski for me. Neither of the strangers had phones on them, but they offered to help me get down the