this is really really old, wrote it for my UPenn application about 4 or 5 years ago (the prompt was to give a one page excerpt from your autobiography). Gets kinda cheesy at points, but hey it's a college essay.... feel free to change it.
I woke up extra early on opening day, too early. I’d been told that lifts were going to open at eight, instead of nine; so I planned accordingly. I woke up at 6:30 that day, earlier than I would for school. No breakfast, and sleeping in my long-johns got me to the mountain at 7:30. I was greeted by a quiet, smileless staff, but the friendly service isn’t what people come to Burke for. I pulled the bench off the top my table and sat down, wondering why nobody else was there with the lifts opening in under a half hour; to tell the truth, I felt out of place being there all alone.
Without a word to the staff or the nonexistent customers, I strapped on my skis and skated over to the quad. At one point the former owners had planned to move the lift. They had wanted to slide it about 1000 ft to the east, and put a high-speed detachable where the Willoughby Quad was. However, Burke’s counterproductive style of not inviting outsiders prevented them from doing a lot of things that they wanted to. It was all the same to me though, high-speed or not. All that matters is that the old quad runs, and that the lift lines don’t get too long. As I neared the lift, my doubts about the rumored opening time were momentarily banished…the chairs were revolving with two lift attendants sitting nearby. I switched from a skate to a double pole and then when one of them shouted: “The lift doesn’t open till nine,” my spirit broke noticeably. After a few moments I realized with determination that my dream of catching the first run on opening day would not be trashed, I unclipped my skis, strapped them to my backpack and walked over to the training hill. Skis on my back and poles in my hands, I pointed my head toward the ground and began to bootpack my way up along the side of the trail. Bootpacking (or hiking in ski-boots) is an altogether different experience from a regular hike, the key is to keep your head to the ground and never look up; if you want to see how far you’ve gone, look behind you. You have to keep your eyes off of your goal, otherwise you’ll give up and ski down from where you are, because when with each step you only gain another six inches, despair sets in quickly. While your physical task must remain your focus, it helps to let your mind stray to another place to pass the time. Some people like to listen to their iPods when they hike, but considering myself a purist, I invariably leave mine behind. I slowly pulled myself towards the top of the mountain, my eyes still unwaveringly focused on the toes of my boots, carefully pounding in each foothold as I left it behind for the next. Breathing heavily, I peeled off layer after layer till I reached the top in nothing but a t-shirt, my soaked clothes hanging off the straps of my backpack like an Arctic hobo. I peeled open the silver wrapper of a Quaker Oats chewy granola bar and sat down heavily on the snow. My skis were still strapped to my backpack, causing my pack to slide up on my back and forcing my face to my knees; I was glad to be at the peak alone. I reached around, unstrapped my skis and laying them down stood up to survey the valley below. My eyes took in the scenery from the baselodge to the distant Willoughby Gap (a steep valley created by two mountains on the either side of a glacial lake). I imagined I could see beyond the Gap, further south, and out of Vermont. To the areas where my future lay, all spread out in front of me but hidden from view by tree covered hills. I pulled my view and focus back to skiing and clicked into my bindings just as I saw the first people get on the lift fifteen-hundred feet below me. The first run of the year on frozen corduroy at Burke Mountain would belong to me.
I pushed hard on the front of my boots, shifting from ski to ski, carving my way down the steepest groomed slope on the mountain. The mountain is famous for its training slope, the place where a myriad of olympians had honed their skills.
