by Lori Vadala Bizzoco

Created on: December 30, 2008

"Swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh" is the sound created by the symphony of plank-like vehicles as they transport passengers from the cloud-colored powder in the sky. My eyes stayed affixed to the skiers as they raced down the mountain faster and faster while their feet made beautiful music in the distance.

"If only I was good enough to join this musical ensemble," I whispered to myself while three preschoolers whizzed by me one-by-one. Aspen, Colorado was the destination for my ski debut but unfortunately, my melody reverberating from atop nature's constructed mass of land had a genre all its own.

Our troupe of fifteen traveled from California, New York, Texas and Arizona for the weeklong cold climate performance in the middle of February. Most of the group included repeat voyagers that had been practicing the sport long before I was able to walk.

My only goal for this excursion was to survive the iceberg covered bump of land that is supposedly home to a bunny or two. Even if my legs were destined to lead my body in two opposing directions down the hill, I bought new apparel in an attempt to "look the part."

One pink jacket boldly representing a big black Spider (check)

Waterproof Gore-tex leggings with soft, warm material inside (check)

Hat, scarf and gloves (check)

If I could not harmonize in the heavens, surely I could blend where dirt meets earth on level terrain and mingle with kindred spirits as we told tales and consumed our share of hotty toddys.

During the first day in Aspen, I waived my right to a solo appearance and decided to partner-up with a ski instructor. Dressed and ready by 7:30 a.m., I headed to the pancake and biscuit labeled terrain called Buttermilk. If it were not for the hearty oatmeal breakfast, my mouth would have been salivating.

Before my instructor arrived, a woman who looked old enough to be my grandmother but athletic enough to compete in the winter Olympics directed a few of us to practice on the infamous bunny trail. Instead of the symphony of alpine skiers that herald above me, our down-to-earth crowd was full of vocalists, guitarists, drummers and keyboardists. Together we formed our own alternative rock group with various dance movements to prove it. "Crash, ouch, whoa and no." Yes, my journey had just begun.

After a few attempts of sliding out of control down the ice covered speed bump called the bunny hill, Jakob appeared and led us to a higher ground. "We'll follow the signs designated with a green circle," informed the Scandinavian

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