Short story about skiing in upstate new york

Christmas day, December 25th 2006 was the day that changed my life. To a lot of people, what I received that day was nothing more than just a piece of cheap wood with some metal and obnoxiously colored plastics. But to me, it was a new form of release in my life that open doors I never thought possible. Some people get their thrills from traveling around the world visiting the darkest and brightest places offered by both man and nature. Others seek thing never found before, untouched by man and its creation. But to me, all I wanted to do was go fast. My first pair of skis weren't exactly the nicest pair but they were good enough for me. Used by past generations they were put through the ringer and pulled back out, patched together with some bazooka bubble gum and tank tape. Encompassed by my family they knew that I got what I wanted. They knew that I spent my nights staying up late and watching Warren Miller films, watching the pros drop cliffs that seemed as tall as the largest buildings and go faster than any car I have ever been in. Those skis were my batsuit; they kept every tree, every rock, every stick on that mountain from hurting me. You put on your boots, click into your bindings and head out for the chair, and it doesn't matter that you failed a test, didn't get the girl, or that your life is on a one way trip down the toilet, your world is right for the next couple of hours. So the race between my friends and I began.Who could hit the first cool trick? Who could go the fastest? Who could be the one that parents looked at and said “that kid is pretty rad”.
My town didn't have the largest mountain or the nicest but to me, it was my wonderland. Shaping it the way I wanted to see it, helicopters flew over me as i hit the little headwalls and went over the small rocks that protruded outward from the hill. Powder coming up hitting my face I envied the cold sting that it offered. But the sting was much more intense when I could no longer breath. It consumed me. My friends nor my family could save me. It swallowed me whole. My first real experience thinking I wasn't going to make it off the mountain was jarring. When I finally exhausted myself from screaming for help to the imaginary people around me, I realized I was all alone. It's cold and lonely in a world where nobody can help. My tomorrowland turned into a prison, and I was the only inmate. Gathering myself I took a long deep breath, uncovered my face from the powder, and realized where I fell. I was not in the predicament I had imagined but instead just off the side of the trail. So close in fact I could be spit on by the a passer bye. Embarrassed and defeated I walked back to the side of the trail, put on my skis which were nestled somewhat comfortably on the lip, and slowly skated off.
It’s been seven years since I was momentarily taken hostage by the mountains. Every year, every time I pass by that spot I reflect on the fear and the struggle it represented. But i'm usually going to fast to stop and look at the trees that stopped me. Instead, I picture the next turn and how cool i'm going to look when I carve into it.