68. Mixing Patterns: Narrative Analysis Paper

68. Narrative Analysis Paper :

Definition: a narrative analysis paper combines the components of personal narrative writing with analysis writing. It follows the components of narrative writing: setting, exposition, climax and resolution and it employs the use of quotations at appropriate moments in order to enhance the meaning of a given moment in the narrative.

Assignment: Write a first person account of a significant memory / event / experience that explores the influence of this moment upon your knowledge. Explore the self-knowledge, revelations, and challenges presented by this moment of conflict.

-Limit you focus to one specific moment

-Establish the four elements of narrative: setting, exposition, climax, and resolution.

-Introduce quotations at the appropriate moments and employ brief commentary on these quotations to blend them into the narrative. (Review the four ways on varying your introductions to the quotation before writing the narrative analysis). Employ all four methods of introducing a quotation.

Sample Narrative Analysis Paper:

Hope and a River

Every life has its points of fixity, certain small stillneses in the

incessancy of the world that anchor us with a sense of continuity

and location." (Leeson 1).

Standing waist high in a mountain stream sending flies toward undisclosed trout, the mere image of it, formed from a dream or a half memory, has the ability to elevate my senses to their most empirical level, allowing them to be honed, whetted, translucent as the water which flows around me, and sensitive to the slightest flicker of change; for as we all know, nothing changes as often as the beautiful.

The pleasure I experience from fishing is not contingent upon catching fish. The landing of a fish seems anticlimactic to the build up of tension that occurs as I anticipate the landing. It is this tension, this anticipation of pleasure, that prepares the mind for realizing the ideal moment. Tying flies during the winter months when the streams and rivers are frozen, preparing the line, leader, tippet, and fly box for the next day's trip, driving from my waterless place to water, picking the right stretch of the Big Wood River, looking above the river for a plentiful hatch of mayflies, searching in the fly box for just the right imitation, tying the right knot so that it won't pull, and casting and the presenting the fly with painstaking care to a rising trout, build upon each other and raise the level of tension, which yearns to be released. It's the landing of a fish that releases this tension, but there is something within all fishermen that desires the tension more than the release. As Ted Leeson states in his book "The Habit of Rivers," "traveling like this with no destination and no steam of your own takes some getting used to. It is difficult not to look ahead, not to see yourself on the way to somewhere. The whole trip thrusts back a lifetime of habit by inverting the accustomed relation of destination and desire-which is exactly why it is good for you." (Leeson 74). Destinationless, desireless, I am fulfilled by the journey toward trout.

Parked near the willows of the Big Wood River near Ketchum, Idaho, I step out of my car and walk slowly down the meandering dirt path through sage brush to the river. It is 7:30am and the sun has just begun to splinter the canopy of the willow trees' leaves. As I walk clumsily along the dirt in my waders, I feel uncomfortable, strange, awkward- like a fish out of water. These full body waders are designed for walking in the water, not in the dirt. Although I am anxious to begin to fly cast, I make my way methodically to the banks of the river, sensing the calm of the trees and the slowed stirrings of nature's content. As I near my secret spot, I leave the road for the path I always take. It has been a week since I last fished this river, but with the unsettling pace of the sensory blur of work and town, it seems much longer.

Describing how removed humans are from appreciating the pace and intricacy of nature, Wendell Berry writes, "though I am here in body, my mind and my nerves too are not yet altogether here. The faster one goes, the more strain there is on the senses, the more they fail to take in, the more confusion they must tolerate or gloss over-and the longer it takes to bring the mind to a stop in the presence of anything." (Berry 233). Although my nerves began their process of relaxing the moment I stepped out of the car, it requires an extended period of time for them to slow to the pace of the woods and the river. This slowing of the senses to the calm of the surroundings is a critical stage in the mind's adjustment to nature. Since humans came from the natural world, (or, to be more specific, from single-celled organisms in water) we are predisposed to recognize the sensations within the natural world, (especially the watery ones.) A walk toward water becomes a walk toward home. So, this walk toward the river becomes a pilgrimage back to the beginning of beginnings, back to who I am and where I was born. With each step I take toward the sounds of water, I feel a restoration of my former, aboriginal self. I become closer to the ancient association of the body's sensual bliss and the mind's unrestrained joy. I step toward the formative influences upon our own consciousness.

Upon reaching the banks of the river, I am surprised to see a man standing in my favorite eddy. As he searches his fly box, he does not notice me. I gaze incredulously at his presence. How did he find my secret spot? How was I going to be able to fish with him here? As I am considering these questions, the man notices me. He appears to be disgusted with my presence. He refuses to acknowledge me with either a verbal or nonverbal greeting and begins to false cast across the river away from me. It may seem inane to the non-fishing reader that I couldn't just walk down river and fish another eddy line, but you must remember, fishermen are hopelessly superstitious and ruthlessly territorial. I could not walk down river and fish another eddy with the same amount of hope that I would reach my ideal (or catch fish) as I would have fishing my favorite spot. Aware that I am irrevocably dependent upon hope, I begin to wade across the river in order to fish the other side of my favorite eddy, directly opposite the man.

As I slowly wade across the current, I watch the man's casting technique. His casts are slow, methodical, and seemingly without effort. His experience is manifest in his cast. The water is too deep in the heart of the eddy, so I have to get within a few feet of him in order cross the river through the shallow riffles at the top of the eddy. I interrupt his fly cast while I cross, adding to his disgust. He is an older man with a white beard, an old weather-beaten, green cowboy hat , L.L. Bean waders, vest, and the requisite pipe dangling from one corner of his mouth, emitting a tiny stream of smoke from the bowl intermittent with occasional puffballs of smoke from the other corner of his mouth. I concentrate on my footing as the current becomes stronger. I remember to lead with my down river foot and glance at the river bank occasionally in order to avoid vertigo. When I reach the other side, I take my fly rod out of its case.

After setting up the rod and threading the fly line through the guides, I search the air just above the river for the swarming sight of a recent insect hatch. Nothing. I look in the water and search for floating remnants of a recent hatch. Nothing. I turn over some rocks and scrape their bottoms for insect larvae. Nothing. If there are no insects in or above the river, then the trout may not be feeding. I look across the water and search for the promising sign of emanating circles from a trout's rise. Nothing. Disappointed and bewildered by the lack of activity at my favorite spot, I hold off despair by tying on my 'never say die' fly: an Adams, size 18. As Ted Leeson advises in his book The Habit of Rivers, one must "trust a few wisely chosen things and recognize that a larger number of alternatives merely increases the likelihood, in any given circumstance, of resorting to the wrong one." (Leeson 80).

As I have said before, fishing is all about hope. That's not quite true. Fishing is also about patience, sustained by hope. "Lovers, poets, religious madmen and anglers seem to have one thing in common-they live for the impassioned anticipation of an uncertain thing," writes Leeson about the faith of fisherman. (Leeson 47). From the lack of activity on the river, I can see that my capacity for patience and hope and the "impassioned anticipation of an uncertain thing" is going to be tested. I begin to cast to the very top of the pool, where the boulder splits the two frothy streams of water, and let the Adams float down the eddy line with the rest of the foam and other debris. As soon as I feel a drag on the line, I start the counterclockwise rotation of looping casts and place the fly back up to the top of the pool and wait with hope. I try to ignore the image of the old man fishing across from me as my eyes drift with my fly line.

As I wait, I consider the sound of the river's incessant flow. I listen to the hushed sound of water sent back upstream upon itself after rushing over an unseen rock. As water is sent over the rock, the mirrored reflection of aspens, willows, clouds, and sky turns into white pearls of spray that spume in blissful expressions of joy and then fall back down upon a bed of swirling foam, which resists the mirrored flow of the river's ease. In the whittling spray of a wave, the river is most itself, for it does not reflect the beauty of the trees, clouds, or sky. It is at this moment that the river revels in its own beauty. I watch and wonder if the white wave created by the rock is the river's own expression of pleasure. In explaining why we cannot experience and know all that a mountain stream has to offer, Wendell Berry concludes that the music created by the sounds of a stream are not intended for human ears and, therefore, are beyond our ability to hear it. He writes:

Perhaps it is to prepare to hear someday the music of the

spheres that I am always turning my ears to the music of

streams. There is indeed a music in streams, but it is not for

the hurried. It has to be loitered by and imagined. Or imagined toward, for it is hardly for men at all. Nature has a patient ear...

She is satisfied to have the notes drawn out to the lengths

of days or weeks or months. Small variations are acceptable

to her, modulations as leisurely as the opening of a flower....

The ear must imagine an impossible patience in order to grasp

even the unimaginableness of such music.

(Berry 194).

Because the "music of streams" is intended for and controlled by the unimaginable patience of nature, humans can only approach a comprehension of its song or, in Berry's words, we can only "imagine toward" it. We are not able to hear the changes in the song for they occur over "days or weeks or months" and we do not have the patience to wait and listen for that length of time. I long for the patience manifest all around on the Big Wood River me and want to participate in-no become- it so that I can hear the river's song.

When Wendell Berry left his job as professor of English at New York University to return to his native Kentucky to become an organic farmer and poet, he hoped to leave behind his human centered perspective of the world. In his essay, "The Long-Legged House, " he writes:

As soon as I felt the necessity to learn about the non human

world, I wished to learn about it in a hurry. And then I began

to learn perhaps the most important lesson that nature had

to teach me: that I could not learn about her in a hurry.

The most important learning, that of experience, can be neither summoned nor sought out. The most worthy knowledge cannot be acquired by what is known as study- though that is necessary

and has its use. It comes in its own good time and in its own

way to the man who will go to where it lives, and wait, and be

ready, and watch...Patience is as valuable as industry. What is to be known is always there. When it reveals itself to you, or when you come upon it, it is by chance. The only condition is your being there and being watchful."

(Berry 167-168).

I wait and watch and live in anticipation of some sign that insects will hatch, trout will rise to them, and feeding will be so frenzied that one will unexpectedly slurp my fly. The natural world lives beyond the influence of human volition, so I try to be there when "the creator churns out the intricate texture of least works that is the world with a spendthrift genius and an extravagance of care." (Dillard 127).

After hours of musing and listening, there is still nothing, not even a rise or the slightest interest in my fly. Fighting to ward off despair, I ask the old man across the river if he has had any luck. I have always liked the fact that in order to ask a fisherman about his success, you have to concede that their fate is determined by the caprice of chance and that success or failure is less dependent upon skill and competence and more upon the governing presence of luck. So I ask the old man, "Any luck... yet?", emphasizing the 'yet' to imply that if luck hasn't come it still may come.

"Not even a rise, " he responds and continues to false cast without ever looking at me. He appears to be as disgusted with my presence as I am with his. Despite his presence, I can feel myself unusually attune to the river in this short amount of time. I watch the water with hope for a glimpse of a trout's rise, of the connection that has transcended man's relationship with the natural world since the first rod was dangled over free flowing water. I follow Annie Dillard's advice "to hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff." (Dillard 3). The repetitive rhythm of casting the fly mixes with the slowed calm of the forked tongues of white water, which subside into the deeper water of the dark emerald pool. This reminds me of the way time tries to keep all events in motion to prevent everything from happening at once. The white froth from the jaded water, spilling over the sides of the boulder recirculates on top of itself and creates a mixed expression of fury and resistance that eventually gives way to the draw of time and floats downstream toward unwatched water. But for that brief moment, when the beaded spray is suspended above the river, there is hope that time's draw can be held at bay. This resistance from moving on to unknown water is hope incarnate. As I am mesmerized by the river's flow, I am left with the feeling that I want to stay where I am for the rest of my life. I want to remain fixed in this dreamlike state of cool green jade, holding off the unknown forever.

At this moment my eyes follow my fly line to the very end of the pool and I feel the tippet drag. I lift the line as if to recast the fly to the top of the pool. To my amazement, the line runs and I know I have a fish on. As I hold the rod high to keep tension on the fish, my reel whirls and clicks furiously. She runs from the bottom of the pool and heads straight for the next set of riffles. I follow her. I am close to the end of my backing when I reach the riffles so I begin to lure her into shallower water. I know it is too fast where I am standing to land the fish, for I can feel the heavy pressure of the current constricting my waders around the back of my legs. I lean the rod toward the right side of the river and walk in the same direction, reeling quickly. The fish leaves the river, wriggles furiously, refuses to give up. She runs some more and leaps into the air again. I lose tension on the fish as she approaches me and then my line shoots out as the fish darts down river with the new found hope that she might be free. I regain tension on the fish and hold the rod high to prevent the tippet from breaking on the rocky bottom. The fight is subsiding and I receive my first glimpse of the unmistakable red sheen of the side of a rainbow trout as she flops to the surface. I bring her in close to me, grab the net that is hooked on to the back of my vest, and sweep her up into the air. She is beautiful. Her cold, shimmering flesh feels heavy in my hand. I place her on top of the handle of my net and estimate that she is about sixteen inches, honestly. I bring her up to my face, kiss her, return her to the river, and begin to move her back and forth to revive her. I let go of her tail and watch her swim away with inexpressible pleasure. Flushed with the glowing sense of dreams fulfilled, I grab a cigar from my vest and smoke.

I look across the river at the old man and smile. He smiles back and nods as an indication of his approval. I think of the fish now swimming in the river, pleased at being back where it wants to be. Like the trout, I am pleased to be back where I am most content. Without the tension that develops out of all of the preparation, the anticipation, the long hours spent willing the conditions to be perfect, the refusal to admit that we are powerless to affect the outcome of our fate, the unrelenting groping at the final goal in order to realize what has consumed all thought, all action, all semblance of the life, if there is one, outside of the fishing endeavor, this would just be another moment in my life that falls short of the ideal. I am grateful for the tension, the release, the trout, this river, and know that I can leave the river with the refreshing sense that life is bearable as long as there are places and moments like this one.

After hours of casting without luck, the old man fishing across from me leaves at dusk. Before scrambling up the bank, he waves and smiles. Although his fishing was unsuccessful, he knows that his time standing in the river was not wasted. He knows, as do I, that the experience of standing in a river, casting for trout is healing. It repairs the senses, develops an appreciation for unanticipated thought, and awakens the imagination. I could see contentment in the old man's expression and unhurried manners that are seldom seen.

When the last stirrings of his departure into the woods subside, I look at the diminishing light of dusk above the darkening water and listen to the river's song. I tuck my fly rod underneath my arm and watch the top of the river's pool as darkness surrounds me. I notice that even the calm pace of nature slows at dusk. There are no rustlings in the woods made by some small, unseen creature in search of food. There are no signs of the tornado-shaped funnel of an insect hatch. There are no concentric circles made by a trout's rise and breaking of the river's surface in search of flies. I remain still in order to participate in this quiet. I want to join it with my own quiet. I apprehend the descending darkness of the coming night. My body loses its substance and I am carried with the river's surges and upwellings. For a time, I am only left with sight. I can feel the draw of the river's current within me and the relentless holding of the trout, flicking their tails in order to resist being swept downstream. I join the pearls of spray of the wave which roll backward upon the river's flow. I become the mixed sounds of hushed silence and blissful bursts of power within the river's song. When I move to leave, it is as though I rise up out of the river. When I move to leave, it is as though I rise up out of the water and emanate with a new sense of hope.

WORKS CITED:

Berry, Wendell. The Long-Legged House. New York: Harcourt, Brace, and

World, 1969.

---. Recollected Essays (1965-1980). San Fransisco: North Point Press, 1981.

Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. New York: Harper and Row, 1974.

Leeson, Ted. The Habit of Rivers. New York: North Point Press, 1993.

Narrative Analysis Essay Samples:

(Sample #1)

Alone. Utterly, completely, alone. They left me. All three of them. I awoke with a heavy heart that morning (I call it morning, it was more like mid-afternoon). Now, more than ever before, I wished I had the privilege to have siblings. They did. Berit, Torben, Halden, they all had each other. The closest thing I have to siblings is them! But they’re only my cousins. I clutched George’s arm as I sauntered into the kitchen. Shoulders down. Head down. Gigi (her name is Katherine, but she makes us grandkids call her Gigi, I couldn’t tell you why), my grandmother, made a face when she saw George. She never liked him. He was too ‘ratty’. I tried to tuck my hair behind my ears, the way she liked it. It was no use. The dampness of the atmosphere had the obsession of clinging to each individual strand. I practically had an afro. Melancholically, I walked through the screen doors. I figured I’d try the only activity that could possibly lighten my spirits: trapping lizards. Walking around with the carefulness and elegance of a hummingbird, I finally saw the item of my greatest obsession. I slowly approached it, the perfectly manicured lawn flattening beneath my tiny feet. Using my little fingers, I found a dead fly sitting on a nearby windowsill. “All you need to do to befriend it is discover some form of interaction that will create intimacy. Obviously, the key is food.” (Duncan 75). Delicately walking towards the small amphibian, I extended the fly and dropped it in front of its face. Apparently the peace-offering was too scary, as the small lizard bolted with the speed of a jaguar. Oh well. Time to swim.

Do you know that feeling when you’re underwater and can’t hear or see anything? It’s the place where all sounds are drowned out and there is only you and the water. The water’s infinite fingers combed through my hair as I pushed off the wall. My lungs were beginning to hurt as I approached the end of the pool. I, as gracefully as an eight-year-old could, pushed off the concrete floor and my head slowly grazed the top of the water. That’s when I saw it. Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Standing on the edge of the pool, just close enough so one step could result in a disaster. She didn’t have to utter a word, I knew what was coming. “People are always ruining things for you.” (Salinger 114).

“Katherine Roxanne, I have been calling for you for over five minutes!”

“Sorry, mom.” I muttered to the floor.

“Come on, we must get ready for dinner. Lord knows it will take us a while.”

My brand new Lilly Pulitzer dress lay on my bed. It was pink, blue, and green with ruffles at the top. A uniform of preppiness. I ran my hands over the fabric. It was coarse, nothing like the bathing suit I had spent the last two weeks in. I slowly slipped it over my head. My hair was still stuck in the back, but I hadn’t noticed. Mom came into my room, holding her weapon of choice: a hairbrush. Sitting down on the plaid-printed chair, she slowly starts to run it through my mane. With every stroke, she hit a tangle which queued my perfectly whiny “OW!”. She, for some odd reason, only reacted to my cries when the we’re somewhat quiet. She’s a little weird like that. Oh well, “Mothers are all slightly insane.” (Salinger 114). Finally, after an eternity of tugging and whining, my hair was pulled back in a ‘tidy’ plait. I never liked my hair in that fashion, I preferred it down, ideally messy. I slipped on my too-small mary-janes, and wandered out to the foyer. It was time for the dreaded family photo. Gathering by the door with my grandparents and parents behind me, I glance over to my mom, mind wandering to her actions today. She is pretty strange but, “She didn’t mind if you told her she was full of beans; she knew she was full of beans; she enjoyed it.” (Duncan 55). The flash of the photo blinded me for a minute, which I wasn’t too fussed about considering the cheesiness of our smiles wasn’t something I wanted to remember.

You’re walking up an opulent stairwell while clutching your mother’s hand. You had never been to anything so extravagant, and a peer was nowhere in sight. You felt uncomfortable in these clothes, for you were used to being in whatever clothes you felt like that day. You did NOT feel like those clothes that day. That’s how I felt - utterly out of place. I reached the massive doors that I assumed were made for giants. The doorman opened them with ease, however, and greeted us with, “Welcome to the Gulfstream Golf Club!” Although his smile exuded warmth, I still didn’t feel welcome. The surroundings of the room were dotted with palm plants, and the chandelier on the ceiling was so big I could stand on it. The hostess showed us to our table. Each of the five place settings were decorated with a intricately folded napkin, and there were eight utensils by each (I counted!). I sat down in the massive red velvet chair, feeling tiny compared to the gargantious furnishing. Feeling insignificant already, I knew the real challenge hadn’t yet begun. I still had to get through the conversation. I’ve been to countless grown-up dinners, and I knew how they worked: you didn’t speak unless spoken to. Trying to understand the topic of conversation was a lost cause, as the themes usually extended past my level of knowledge. However, tonight was even harder. I sat there, trying to listen, but words like “the cabinet” and “national welfare” were lost in translation. Frustrated, I came to the conclusion that “I didn’t know anything about anything.” (Duncan 108). A swirl of passionate voices echoed around me, and I began to lose interest. That’s when the first course came. Duck. Great. I am quite opposed to eating animals I find cute. Duck was one of those. I cut it up, like I was supposed to, and began moving it around my plate. The steam from the meal drifted towards my face, making my stomach churn. After an eternity, the dinner was finally over. I felt discouraged that I couldn’t decipher anything about that conversation. As we walked out, my face was glued to the floor. My head swam with questions. “Is this what the real world is? Will these things ever make sense to me? Is it time to grow up?” The last question stuck in my mind for quite some time. I was only eight, but I felt that I should be more mature.

As all five of us piled in the Mercedes Station Wagon, I began to grow sleepy. I rested my head on my dad’s shoulder. My eyelids grew heavy, and it took all I could muster not to shut them. The discussion prolonged. “I didn’t understand, but I listened.” (Duncan 240).

(Sample #2)

“I was heading to the source”, but I didn’t know it yet (Duncan, 237). Sandwiched between my best friend and world class backcountry guide, we started our ascent. The skins on my skis crunched with every elongated step. Dark, gloomy storm clouds released unfathomably large snowflakes above our heads, each one holding its own identity. Such flakes danced in front of me, already building my anticipation for the decent. To prevent any physical discomfort from the biting cold, I didn’t have any skin showing. Yet, I’d never felt so exposed. There was a brutal, beautiful rawness that showed itself when in the mountains and I was embracing every bit of it. Passing tree after tree, rock after rock, not a single beam of sunlight showed itself, merely adding to the rugged atmosphere of the Boulder Mountains. I began to endure a dull cold within my extremities. Clenching my core, focusing on my breathing, I proceeded behind my confidant, Blake. Thouijgh I was uncomfortable and impatient, I was perfectly content due to my surroundings. I flashed Zach Crist a smile, knowing he was experiencing the same thing as me for the umpteenth time. As our trek continued, snow accumulated and my skis grew heavier. Tree branches sagged under the weight of the fabled, white, fluffy substance and everything seemed to sparkle. Soon enough, our destination came into view accompanied by a new strength in the wind. Nearly being blown sideways, we proceeded. Step by step. Inch by Inch.

After a quick break where an additional layer was added and hot tea was sipped, we popped off our skis and strapped them to our backpacks. Hanging on by cold fingers and grip-less ski boots, we made our way to the ridge in the distance. Still, my anticipation was building for the well deserved ski down. Keeping my balance with a beefy pair of Rossignol Soul 7’s on my back was a welcomed challenge. The storm above us was as strong as ever and its child named wind was a constant reminder that we were now somewhere where our wishes of sun didn’t carry much weight. After rounding a final windlip and slowly traversing a sizable corness, our stopping point was in reach. Nuzzled deep in my neck gator and coat hood I breathed hard. Each breath more satisfying than the last, I had made it. My wind chilled cheeks were too cold to smile so my eyes began to beam. However, still work needed to be done before I could begin my final descent. Skins needed to come off and skis needed to be put on. Slowly but surely, my frozen leather gloves striped iced skins off my skis. While carefully placing such a vital piece of gear in my pack, I heard Zach briefly telling Blake about his line of choice. Deliberately avoiding a cliff ban to the left of a small pine tree, Zach aimed for a large open patch of freshly ladened snow.

“Alright gentleman, be safe and enjoy the fruits of your labor!”

And then just like that he was gone, gliding into the blizzard esque abyss that surrounded us. Hoots and hollers of excitement followed Zach down the exposed face like an avalanche.

“I think I’m going to stay higher than Zach did but get more direct down lower next to that rock,” Blake says while using his pole to indicate his intended path.

“Sweet,” I grunted, too engrossed in my own decision making to give a damn about where Blake was going.

After a quick high five and “knucks” Blake takes a breath and yells,

“Dropping in 3, 2, 1...”

His physique was soon devoured by the merciless snowfall.

Finally, it is just me standing on this knifeblade ridge alone. However, I notice something other than an eerie sense of solitude...it is silent. The wind has stopped blowing, the snow has stopped falling. All at once the clouds are cracking open revealing blinding rays of sun and a sky deeper than the ocean. “I whirl around: sunlight strikes me full in the face. My eyes close. And then I see it-the vertical bar-a line so subtle it must be made of nothing nameable. And it runs from my heart of earth and blood, through my head, to the sky...” (Duncan, 277). This connection I’m feeling is extraordinary! I feel this energy pulsing through the ridge, through my skis, up my spine, and into my heart. I look around, suspended in the sky by this immensely powerful pile of rock. Here I am, surrounded by 360 degrees of freedom, and my skis to guide me. As I look out, “The entire valley hovers, still, before me” (Duncan, 277). Along with the clarity in the sky comes a mental clarity that I have seldom felt before. Each of my senses is overwhelmed by endless detail that makes this moment that much more remarkable. I see my line below, left above an ancient pine and straight from there: directly into a chute untouched by my fellow outdoorsmen. I close my eyes, breathe, and push off with my poles.

Before I knew it I was flying, soaring down the face of a mountain rugged enough to make my skin crawl with excitement. Each turn I made had its own personality, some short and quick and others long and slow. My skiing at the time was like a dance, pace changing in effort not to get swallowed up by the cold smoke trailing behind me. After reaching my first landmark, the elder pine tree, I pulled a slow left turn and headed for the highlight of my line. The chute I had entered was one that demanded my full attention. It boasted sharp walls with only a thin gap between. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pointed my skis to the end of the channel and got small in order to stay away from the stone partitions. I gained speed as I plummeted to the bottom, fully in control yet my movement was undisciplined in the vast sea of snow and rock. After coming out the other end unscathed, I began my final effort to achieve the truest freedom I have ever know. Arcing large, silky turns in the thigh deep snow I began to laugh. Unaware of where this verbal showing of satisfaction came from, I embraced it. After countless mouthfulls of airy snow, my journey was coming to the end. I reached the bottom, welcomed with a round of applause for my adventurous line and eloquent execution. I realized my sheer joy was showing after Zach said, “That right there, that’s the stuff we live for.”

Although the return to normal life was going to be difficult after such a day, I knew it was necessary. The emersion in a busy, metropolitan life makes reflecting on those days in the backcountry just that much better. That night, when listening to my dad on a business call and my mom and sister coordinating afternoon activities, I was able to appreciate the deep connection I had felt with the mountains just a few hours prior. My interdependence on the mountains is something I have grown to crave and that is never going to change. I will forever be in love with the 360 degrees of freedom that comes with standing on my skis atop a mountain.