By Caspar von Hollen ’26, Humor Editor 

After a great night of snow, the trails looked similar to this. (Photo courtesy of PeakRankings)

Like many other NA students on that fateful morning, I awoke with excitement. I rolled out of bed and walked, fingers crossed, over to my desk where my phone was charging. YES! I saw the text I’d been hoping for: school was canceled, so we had a snow day. I climbed back into bed and fell asleep instantly, finally gaining back the hours of sleep my philosophy homework had deprived me of.

When I awoke for the second time, I looked out the window. “Wow, we really are snowed in,” I thought as I looked at the 1/32-inch dusting of snow. We really were lucky that this snow day was called; getting to school would have been really dangerous. Even though the roads themselves were clear, the sides weren’t and what kind of an NA student wouldn’t get distracted by the snow? Yeah, definitely too dangerous to drive. 

Sarcasm aside, I decided that I should make the most of my day. Instead of getting my daily dopamine dose from Instagram, I decided to go skiing. I packed up the car and hit the road, ready to experience the glory of an East Coast power day. 

As I got closer, the slopes came into view. I was struck by the beauty of the brown ground that lined the trails. “This must be what it’s like skiing in the West, better, probably.” As I bought my ticket, I heard the whir of the snowmakers and thought, “we need some of these around NA so we can get snow days more often.” 

At first, I thought I was being economical by renting skis at the mountain, but I was dismayed when I discovered that the bottoms looked more like my paper on a handwritten philosophy essay — if you asked my teacher what that looks like you’d understand that the skis were barely hanging on — than the smooth surface they are supposed to. This feeling only continued when I turned the skis over to examine the edges, which were almost as dull as a knife from Sage Dining, and, to be clear, the knives are dull enough that in a chicken vs. knife battle, I would bet on the chicken. Nevertheless, I made my way to the lift line, excited that I’d be on the slopes in a matter of minutes. That was my second blunder. The lines were endless. So long, in fact, that they rivaled the time it takes to turn into NA in the morning. It’s safe to say I aged a few years in that line. 

On the way up, I watched the scenery on the slopes below. It consisted of too many beginner skiers in too little space. I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Skiers, in jeans of course, with a massive “Jerry gap” between their goggles and helmet, turned, or at least tried to, crashed, and yard sale-ed across the slope. 

Finally, though, when I made it to the top, I was ready to ski. I clipped into my skis and headed down my first trail, a black diamond named “Devil’s Spine,” which I chose instead of the green trail, “Smooth as Butter,” in the hope that it would be less skied-off. I was wrong. While I was about halfway down, I turned around to see an out of control snowboarder barreling towards me. WHAM! In an instant, I was sent flipping and tumbling down the trail. My memory faded after that, but when it resumes I am driving home, tired and achy from the day of skiing and by no means ready to be back in class the next day.