I fold over the mahogany velvet curtains, surprised that again winter had arrived with no warning. The ivy green hillsides appear now hidden underneath a sheet of delicate white snow. Bare limping trees line the streets of Everglade Avenue. Cautiously, I walk outside and the chill December wind hits me like a pail of ice water. I breath out a heavy sigh and watch my breath rise up in a visible puff. My eyes trail over to the shining icicles hanging from the eaves of our condo like stalactites. Then to children cheerfully assembling snowmen and unmercifully attacking each other with snowballs. The shamrock green lake usually crowded with fishermen transformed into a crystalline skating rink crowding with ice skaters. I brush off snow resting on my gloves, tighten my pink scarf over my blue-tinged lips and begin making my way to the Whistler Village. The village is the heart of Whistler, Canada and always rings with a pleasant aura. Today the village seems even more cheerful than usual. Everyone is exchanging broad smiles and heavy laughter while merry Christmas songs boom out speakers and rock their ear drums. Street lights and lights inside the lodges are set at a dim amber, casting a warm feeling that adds onto the holiday mood. Most lodges seem as if identical Christmas decor bombs struck them, so I head to the only store I know, Barney’s Tubing and Extreme Sports. Also my friend Isla is sure to be there renting a tube or snowboard. Entering the store I am warmly greeted by Barney, the proud owner for 30 years now. He has a long gray beard that dangles down to his shoulders and to match the holiday spirit, a red and green ski parka and reindeer antlers with jingle bells on it.
“Isn’t it a great day today? A bunch of kids are looking for a tube to rent. Is that what you’re here for?” He asks, his voice less raspy than usual.
The jingle bells dangling from his ridiculous reindeer antlers swish about as he continue talking and I stifle a laugh.
“Actually I’m not looking to rent anything, but is Isla here?”
“Yeah Isla’s in the experienced tuber’s section.”
He points to the far left corner of the store. I make my way over to there and on the way, pass by many kids about my age lugging gigantic tubes twice their size.
“Over here!” Isla waves to me from a crowd of teenagers picking out tubes.
Isla is the type of person you just want to impress. She is an adventure seeker. From bungee jumping, to wild water rafting. Even her appearance matches her nature. Her shoulder length curly hair is just as wild as her personality. As for me, my jet black hair hangs dead straight, as drab as my personality. Pushing my way through the crowd, I notice Isla pulling out a black tube with a fire design and pink skulls from underneath a pile of other tubes.
“Cool design,” I say.
“You can have it, I’ll use the other one.” She points to one with gray and magenta graffiti print. Even though I can’t tube, I have to admit I’m tempted to because of how awesome the design looks. Before I know it, everything seems like a great blur though time. Isla and I rent out the tubes, and we ride halfway across the ski lift when I finally came back to my senses. I just realize that I have no idea how to tube and am heading up the steepest mountain in Whistler for experienced tubers only, BlackComb Mountain. To make matters worse, the only way down is by tubing. Even though I am completely horrified, I pretend to look like I know what I am doing to impress Isla. Glancing down at the beautiful scenery of pale and stiffened grass valleys and warmly lit lodges help calm my frantic nerves a bit. But that only lasts for so long because after what seems like five scarce seconds, the cart suddenly bolts to a jarring halt and I have to exit the ski lift.
“Aren’t you excited?” Isla exclaims, bursting with enthusiasm.
“Mhm,” I choke out.
By now I feel the warm putrid taste of vomit creeping up my throat. I stare vigorously down at the scenery hoping to grasp the same reassuring feeling I had a moment ago, but instead it is only mocking me of the dreaded ride down. I reluctantly grab ahold of my tube with the fire prints and skulls and follow closely behind Isla who is skipping in front of me. We join the mob of cheerful people to the neon green starting flag. Then it is time to wait in the line. Everyone who has gone in front of me is making me feel smaller and more nervous, like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I am the counting the people off now, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
“See you at the bottom,” Isla hollers.
She gets in her tube and slides down like a pro. A deep pang of worry and horror strikes my gut like a knife. Shaking furiously like a leaf in a storm, I haltingly set down the tube and try to mimic how Isla got on. A little girl who can’t be more than five years old next in line is impatiently tapping her foot. Then she lifts up her sleeve and points to her pink wristwatch while dramatically rolling her eyes
“Can you hurry up? I’m not getting any younger here!” She spits out hastily.
I ignore her and continue to stall, but before I know it, the little girl gives me a hard shove on the back and I am tumbling down the steep hill. A harsh icy wind slaps me on the face and sends a nipping shiver crawling all the way down to my toes. Brisk and bitter air seeps into my pink gloves making my fingers numb until they cease to to bend properly, frigid and stiffened around the handles of the tube. I feel like the whole tube is going to flip upside down and I’ll knock over the neon orange cones that mark the border line between the tubing trail and falling to my death. Surprisingly I don’t and am still continuing down the mountain in one piece. My worry disappears as if blown away by the gusty wind. By now steering the tube is a lot easier to control and I am gracefully gliding through the twists and turns. In this moment I feel like I am made of air particles, free. I am overwashed with bliss because not only have I overcome my fear of exploring outside my comfort zone, squinting I can make out Isla giving me a thumbs up in the misty distance. I sigh and breath in the cool winter air. Slowly I skid to a stop at the red flag marking the end of the trail and the start of a braver beginning.