By Luis Keesmaat-Freeman

I woke up, and they were gone. I was alone. I sat up on my bed and rubbed my eyes until I was ready to confront my new reality. 

It was mid-December, and I had spent the past two weeks training in Colorado for the upcoming snowboard season. I was living in an apartment with four of my teammates from Ontario. Every morning, we woke up, ate breakfast together, got ready, and spent the remainder of the day, until dinner, training with an American snowboard team. This had been my routine since I got here. Despite being alone in a foreign country, we found familiarity with each other. Until now. I stayed an additional one and a half weeks to get more training in before the start of the season. Today was Saturday, my friends had left early in the morning, and I was moving out of our Airbnb into a motel lodge downtown.

The silence was excruciating. I plugged in my speaker and played music to fill the empty space in my room as I packed up my belongings. It was 8 am here, which meant nobody back home in Toronto would be awake for another 5 hours. I had organized a shuttle for 10 o’clock to take me downtown to the motel, but I had left an overwhelming amount of packing for myself. The night before was the first World Cup of the season in Berchtesgaden, Germany, and we decided to stay up late to watch. I sluggishly walked through the apartment, collecting my stuff and thinking about the upcoming week. Being alone scared me, but I knew I was here for a bigger reason. I had to remember the broad perspective. As much fun as I might have been having, I did not come to Colorado to spend time with my friends. I came to train.

Once I finished sloppily cramming all my equipment and clothes into my bags, I moved on to emptying the fridge. I gathered the remainder of the food and organized it into a grocery bag. Underwhelmed by the amount of food that was left behind, I decided that I would have to go and get some groceries tonight. Ten o’clock was quickly approaching, so I began bringing my bags to the garage where I was being picked up. As I closed the door to our apartment for good, the queasy feeling in my stomach intensified. I was homeless, standing alone, tightly gripping my ski bags. The thought of this made my breath shake, but I had to keep moving. A dark navy blue van was waiting for me when I got to the garage. The only defining detail between this van and a random one on the street was a small company logo on the side. Nonetheless, I started loading my bags. It was still early in the morning, so the shuttle was empty. After loading my embarrassing amount of bags into the middle of the vehicle, I took the seat adjacent to the driver. A few minutes into our ride, the driver turned to me and asked in a heavy Southern accent, “What happened? They kick you out?” I laughed and explained the situation. The shuttle driver was a rough-looking old man with a bushy un-kept moustache. He looked like he belonged roping cattle on a ranch rather than patiently waiting in traffic. He told me that he had assumed I had been asked to leave because he was taking me to a motel. Despite the unusualness of our conversation, it was comforting to talk to somebody. Eventually, we arrived at the motel.

The motel was called The Nordic Lodge, and when I arrived, I was greeted by a man with a Swedish accent and a neat combover who directed me to my room. I grabbed my room key and brought my bags to the front door. The key slid into the lock, and the door clicked open. The room was dark, cramped, and didn’t appear to be set up for guests staying more than two days. I struggled with the thought of living here for the remaining week and a half left on my trip. Being confined to only a bedroom with a microwave and sink would be hard. I brought my bags inside and started unpacking. By the time I was done, my room felt a bit more like home, but the underlying thoughts of being alone never went away.

I settled down on my bed, and instantly, the queasy feeling in my stomach intensified. With nothing to do, my mind began to wander, thinking about being away from school in my graduating year and wondering if the sacrifice of being away for a month was truly worth it. Would I be able to catch up when I got home? Am I already too far behind?

The stress was crashing down on me, and I could feel the bland walls of my room slowly suffocating me. With nobody to turn to, I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled on my snow pants, laced up my boots, put on my jacket, grabbed my snowboard, and left.

I quickly made my way to the closest bus stop and took my seat. The fierce wind whipped at exposed pieces of skin on my face. The weather was harsh, but the cold occupied my mind from worry. 

The bus ride was familiar by this point in my trip. I recognized the names of stores and restaurants that my friends and I used to visit, which only reminded me of their recent departure. Soon enough, I arrived at the bottom of the gondola. My chunky boots plowed through the freshly fallen snow as I hustled over to the line for the gondola. When my turn came, I slid my board into the rack on the gondola door and impatiently jumped inside. I brought my powder board to the mountain today because of the massive amounts of snow. Unlike most places, Colorado was having one of the best seasons they have ever had for snow, breaking the record for the first time in 40 years. My powder board is 145cm and floats on fresh powder like no other snowboard I’ve ever ridden. As I stared out the gondola window, eyeing the untouched snow, the familiar feeling of anticipation charged through my body. 

I grabbed my board from the rack and raced over to the start of the trails to strap in. The harsh wind and snow made it hard to keep my eyes open at the top of the mountain. I slipped my goggles over my eyes and began putting on my board. I gracefully hopped forward and began moving across the top of the mountain towards the back runs. The back bowls were unmarked, and I was sure that they would be untouched on a day as snowy as today. I wanted to take the longest run down while my legs were still fresh. I knew that in a few runs, I would be too tired to continue exploring the back bowls. As the crowd of skiers and snowboarders faded into the background, I approached the seemingly unmarked patch of trees that signified the start of the run.

I looked out over the mountain’s crest and took a deep breath. A feeling of relief washed over me as I looked out over the mountain. My problems seemed insignificant to the looming mountains surrounding me.

Mountains in Italy by Luis Keesmaat-Freeman

I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I stared down the mountain.

The queasy feeling in my stomach from the morning had transformed into a euphoric feeling of anxiety, and I was craving more.

I transitioned over the edge of the bowl and began my descent, leaving my stress and worries behind me at the top of the mountain.